He threw another bit of toast onto the dock. With great flapping of wings, the gull hopped to the dock to pick up the morsel. He held his head up, gulped the bread down, shook his head and returned to the piling to watch Jake.
Jake sipped more coffee, returning to his thoughts. He was interrupted by a voice from the dock..
"Aunt Martha called me about you."
Mike Reynolds was Jake’s first cousin, the son of his mother’s brother, Joseph Reynolds. At least ten years older than Jake, Mike, too, was a lawyer. But, of course, thought Jake, Mike was still working.
"Mom called you?" Jake looked at his cousin, standing on the heavy wooden planks of "B" Dock, squinting against the morning sun. He wore dirty blue jeans, a worn old sweatshirt and even older deck shoes. He wore no socks.
"Of course she did. Your mom is my favorite aunt, you know. I think I’m her favorite nephew."
"Mike, she’s your only aunt, and you’re her only nephew."
"Okay, Jake. But she called me nonetheless. She’s proud of you. Always has been, but now she’s a little worried. Came to me as the older, wiser cousin and the older, wiser lawyer to ask my advice, or, more properly, for me to give you some advice."
Standing on the dock, Mike surveyed the surroundings. Jake watched him as he looked over Jake’s big beautiful sailboat. Jake watched as he turned to look down the dock towards Hanson’s Marina office and beyond to the quaint village of Bay Harbor, Wisconsin, its cottages stacked up the hillside, each commanding a magnificent view of Raspberry Bay and the surrounding Apostle Islands. Mike turned back to gaze out past Jake and the ketch, Resolution, to Raspberry and Oak Islands and the hazy images of other islands beyond.
Mike grinned and looked around the boat again. "Although I’m not entirely sure who should be giving advice to whom."
"How about some coffee?" Jake offered. "Come aboard. Do you have time?"
"Thanks." Mike stepped over the lifelines into the spacious cockpit, choosing a seat alongside the mizzen mast just forward of the steering pedestal with its big stainless steel steering wheel and liquid-filled compass. "I’m off for a little fishing today and tomorrow. I got guests coming from Duluth. Saw you sitting here and, since my friends won’t be here for a little while, I thought I’d stop for the little talk I promised Aunt Martha."
"Where are you going?"
"I think we’ll take my boat over past Sand Island and around toward Cornucopia. Should be biting over there."
"Are you staying at the old place?"
Mike looked down the long dock and up the hillside and the rows of small cottages. "Yep. It’s still there, almost exactly as Grampa Reynolds had it. Nothing much has changed."
Jake looked in the direction of the hillside where both his grandfathers, Jake Reynolds, who was also Mike's grandfather, and Bill Kingsley, Jake’s other grandfather, had been early settlers to the area and had their cottages on the hillside. Jake’s parents still used the Kingsley place on occasion.
Jake disappeared below, emerging in a moment with a large thermos of hot coffee and a mug for Mike.
Sipping the steaming coffee, holding the big blue mug in both hands, Mike asked, "So to fulfill my duty to my favorite aunt, Jake, can you tell me what’s going on?"
Jake wasn’t sure he wanted to do this, but he knew it would happen with someone and with more than just one someone. So maybe this was the best place to begin with explanations to those who did not already know.
"It started quite a while ago," he began. "It’s a little hard to explain, but somewhere along the line, the practice changed for me. I know I might be a little too idealistic, but the law, or at least the way it is practiced today, seems to have lost sight of its original purpose."
"Which is?"
"The resolution of disputes," Jake answered quickly, "at least for the civil law."
Mike paused a moment. "Ah, I see. So now that you don’t think the system is working, you believe this," he swung his hand around, palm up, indicating the big ketch, " is the ultimate ‘resolution,’ for you at least? Hence her name?"
Jake grinned sheepishly. Kind of corny, huh?"
"Not at all, Jake. I don’t know many lawyers who haven’t felt the way you do at some time or other. Of course not too many take such drastic action."
"You think I’m crazy?"
"No, I don’t. That’s too simple an answer for Aunt Martha, however. I’ll need more detail before I talk to her again."
"Well, if it’s for Mom, what do you need to know?"
Mike adjusted his weight on the cockpit seat. Resolution’s fiberglass benches in the cockpit were fitted with padded cushions for crew and passenger comfort. "Let’s see," he said, "I haven’t kept track as well as I should, but how long have you practiced law?"
"Eighteen years," answered Jake.
"That long? Damn. I hadn’t realized it," Mike remarked. "Of course, I guess I’ve been doing it for almost thirty. Spend the whole time at the Stratton firm, did you?"
"That’s right, Stratton, McMasters & Hines, right downtown Minneapolis, the whole time."
"Stu McMasters was a law school classmate of mine at the U. Did you know that?"
"I think I did," said Jake. "I don’t recall if he mentioned it or if I just figured it out."
"A good man."
"A very good man," agreed Jake.
"Well, I haven’t kept very good track of you, I’m afraid, but, Jake, Minnesota isn’t that big a legal community and we hear things . . . even up in Duluth." He smiled. "I’ve seen stuff on some high profile cases you’ve handled. I see your name listed on the faculty on Continuing Legal Education brochures for civil trial practice issues. Apparently your mom has a right to be proud. So what happened to cause you to up and quit in your prime and with such a successful practice? I’ll bet old Stu was not happy to see you go."
"No, he wanted me to stay," said Jake.
"Well?"
The reasons, thought Jake, the reasons were those he had discussed with his partner Jim Decker and later, Stu McMasters. All part of his general dissatisfaction with the practice of law.
"It’s kind of a long story," Jake continued. "I think I started to have serious doubts about six or seven years ago. My concerns really began when litigation firms in the Twin Cities became so contentious and it wasn’t just a few characters in the legal community as it had always been, but it began to become the rule, especially for the larger so-called ‘premier law firms.’"
"Ah, Minneapolis," sighed Mike. "I remember when lawyers in downtown Minneapolis operated by accommodation, helped each other and waived the strict requirements of the rules to help things move along." He sipped coffee from the large mug. "Of course that was a little before your time."
"Not too far, Mike. It was apparent from the files I worked on, correspondence from just a few years earlier. But it changed and then it really changed."
"I know." Mike shook his head.
"Well, I began to have doubts at first, then real dissatisfaction. I talked to my partner Jim Decker first . . ."
"Jake," interrupted Mike, I know my guests will be along soon, looking for me. So I can spend my hours out there in a more productive fashion than simply waiting, probably in vain, for the fish to find me and my boat, give me something to ponder. What is it that you want?"
There it was. Asked in a few simple words, "What is it that you want?" What indeed?
"Mike," Jake paused in thought, then continued, "I didn’t want to quit practicing law. I like it. I love it. It’s my life. But I have quit, and that’s because the practice of law is no longer the way I can practice it, with honor, integrity, dignity and civility."
"You know we’re not all dishonorable liars who are undignified and uncivil."
"I’m sorry, Mike. I don’t mean you."
"I know, Jake, and I didn’t take it that way. What I’m saying is that a lot of lawyers feel the way you do and can still practice law. Can’t you?
"I don’t think so. I guess that’
s just the kind of lawyer I am. Maybe I love the law too much."
"So, you’re going to become a beach bum and live here?"
"There’s a slight problem with that, too, Mike."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. You know I wasn’t in one of those high volume plaintiff’s firms and we didn’t settle or win any of the really big contingent fee cases like some other firms. There weren’t any single cases that suddenly made us all millionaires."
"So, join the great unwashed majority," Mike said. "Hell, I’m a single practitioner in Duluth. So?"
"So, I can’t really afford this." Jake gestured around him.
"And you need this?"
"I do. If I can’t practice law the way I think it should be done, and apparently I can’t, then I have to be here. I grew up here, at least in the summers. If it weren’t for the practice of law, I would have found some kind of a job here." Jake looked around at the marina, the islands and Resolution and added, "I have to have this."
"Hmmh." Mike sipped his coffee. "So, what are you going to do?"
"I don’t know, Mike. I’ve never been one to just wait to see what happens or do nothing and hope everything works out all right, but I think I’m just going to sail the Apostles and walk the beaches for the summer and face the problems at freeze-up in the fall."
"Gutsy," Mike commented. He stared down at the floor of the cockpit and then back up at Jake. "but you haven’t given me much to comfort Aunt Martha."
"I know, I know. I’ll talk to Mom."
"She still wants to hear from me, I’m afraid." Mike turned and looked down the dock. "Ah, here come my guests."
A man and a woman walked toward them on the dock. He was a gray-haired man of medium height, about 180 pounds, Jake guessed. She was a petite woman with medium length brown hair. Dressed in blue jeans, tennis shoes and a green pullover jacket, she carried a large brown shoulder bag. The man also wore blue jeans, tennis shoes and wore a tan wind breaker. They stopped by Resolution’s stern, reading the name on the transom.
"Good morning, Mike," the man said. "The harbormaster told us we’d find you here."
"Hi guys," said Mike rising from his seat. Jake followed suit, standing in the cockpit waiting for introductions.
Mike made the introductions. "This is Jake Kingsley, owner of this stately and beautiful vessel. Jake, I’d like you to meet my crew for fishing today. This lovely lady is Judy Moss."
"Nice to meet you, Ma’am." Jake nodded, Judy Moss smiled in return.
Mike turned toward the man and said to Jake, "And this gentleman is one of our trial judges in Duluth . . ."
Jake leaned forward and extended a hand over the lifelines. "Jake Kingsley," he said.
The man took his hand in a firm grip and answered, "Digger Moss."
As Mike Reynolds and the Mosses walked back down the dock toward Mike’s fishing boat, Jake returned to his thoughts. Now his mother and his cousin were concerned about him. Oh, great, he thought. And they would all watch him flounder in a year or two and say, probably in unison, "We told you so!" Mike’s parting words had been, "Jake, we’ve got to talk more. You know I have to report back to Aunt Martha."
It was still early and quiet in the marina. The gentle sound of the ringing of the halyards in the breeze continued. The gull returned to the piling and watched Jake, patiently.
People were beginning to rise for the new day. Over on "A" Dock he saw a few heads appear through hatches of sailboats tied there. Some were regular slip holders and some were transients temporarily docked at Hanson’s for a night or two while they cruised the Apostle Islands. Bay Harbor in Raspberry Bay was far enough around on the tip of the Bayfield Peninsula that it provided a pleasant safe harbor away from the harbors around the city of Bayfield and Madeline Island and gave easy access to the western islands. Many stopped here on their way around to Cornucopia and Port Wing or out on the open waters of western Lake Superior and on to Duluth.
He sipped more coffee and thought about his predicament. He knew some would say, "What predicament?" Others would say, "Must be pretty nice! Big beautiful sailboat, carefree in the Apostle Islands . . . Gimme a break!"
His current state of "retirement" from his Minneapolis law firm was his own doing. He had no income. He lived aboard an expensive sailboat, which was beyond his means when it came to upkeep, dockage, winter storage, insurance, and all those other incidentals attendant to boat ownership. While he could manage these costs and still feed himself for perhaps a year or even two, what then? What is next? he thought.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Heeled at ten degrees, Resolution cut through the water on a close reach with main, mizzen and both jibs set. The three men enjoyed the passage out of Raspberry Bay without speaking. Resolution's bow pointed northeast in the southeasterly wind past Raspberry and Oak Islands. Bear Island passed to the port looking like a great sleeping bear lying on its belly with its head, the southeast tip, lying flat on the ground, or in this case, the water. Jake brought the boat to weather around Otter Island. Resolution was close-hauled, tacking several times between Otter, Rocky and South Twin Islands. Finally, Jake brought her head through the wind and around to sail along Manitou Island's northwest shore and back to Oak's north end.
"Ease a little," Jake said. Stanton and Bert Hanson set the trim of the sails as Resolution sailed into a comfortable broad reach.
"She's a wonderful boat, Jacob," Bert said as he cleated the jib sheet. "Handles like a dream in this fresh wind."
Bert Hanson was forty-eight years old. A veteran of Viet Nam and twenty-five years on the Chicago police force, he looked the part. He was a broad, powerfully built man with dark hair and mustache. He had little gray in his hair although his great hairy barrel chest was beginning to show gray just below his thick neck.
Bert had retired from the police department a little over a year ago to come home to Raspberry Bay to take over the operation of the marina from his aging father who wanted to retire. Bert's wife, Sandy, was happy to see Bert out of police work. She worked hand in hand with Bert running the marina and enjoying their retirement.
The three men were good friends. Each considered the other two good company and looked forward to times like these when they could all be together.
"Ready the anchor," Stanton poked Bert as they approached Oak Island. "Your arms are twice as big and three times as hairy as anyone else's. You were born to the job."
"If hair is any indication of strength and ability, Professor, sir, you could ready the damned anchor with your upper lip," Bert winked at Jake and then hurried forward to tend the anchor before Professor Stanton reloaded for another verbal barrage.
The sails were dropped and engine started as Jake brought the ketch into the indentation along Oak Island's north shore. As Resolution approached the little strip of sand beach, the brisk wind and two foot waves disappeared in the lee of the island. With the anchor set in twelve feet of water, Bert paid out about ninety feet of anchor rope to achieve the desired scope of better than seven to one for safe anchorage for the night.
Jake started charcoal in the grill on the stern rail while Stanton prepared cocktails, Scotch and water for Jake, brandy and water for Bert and a dry martini for himself. The men settled in the cockpit to enjoy their drinks under the rising red clay bluffs of Oak Island.
"Well my boy," Bert took a slug of his brandy, "for somebody without a job, you seem to be doin' just fine; brand new sailing yacht, fully equipped bar with excellent although outspoken bartender and steaks for dinner. Lotta people wish they had it this rough."
"It is nice." Jake agreed, "But for how long?"
"Plenty of time to worry about that, gentlemen. I say a toast to the ketch Resolution and her able skipper and crew." Stanton raised his martini.
The others replied and glasses clicked to the toast.
During dinner at the dinette down below, Bert Hanson spoke. "Well since you are in need of employment, Jakey, I know a young lady with a legal problem right up your alle
y."
"If I wanted legal problems right up my alley, I would have stayed at Stratton, McMasters & Hines, and you know it."
"Oh bullshit! You came here to get away from the big buck private practice rich bitch lawyers, not the law, and you know it." Bert smiled. "That kind of practice never helped real people like this gal."
"Bert. Bert. If the man wishes to languish in this abject poverty in which he's placed himself, let him be." Stanton extended an arm gesturing around at the yacht's gorgeous teak interior as he reached for the wine and filled the stemmed glasses.
"This is class, Jake," Stanton replaced the bottle, "...stemmed glassware, and, thank God, without pictures of adorable little ring buoys or something else nautical on them."
"That would spoil the wine." Jake said.
"Seriously though," Jake looked at the two men, "I may not be permanently away from the law, but the last thing I want is for people around here to decide I'm a lawyer to ask about any problem they may have. All I need is a bunch of landlord-tenant and divorce questions I can't answer. Those people I can't help anyway."
"This one, I bet you can." said Bert. "Name's Pallmeyer. Her son was hurt in an accident on one of the islands a couple of years ago. You guys might remember it."
"How was he hurt?" Stanton asked. "And before you continue, may I suggest that we take our coffee and retire to the cockpit and open air."
They rose and climbed the ladder to the cockpit. Stanton handed out mugs of steaming coffee.
Bert continued. "He was running a tractor on Otter Island for the Park Service. They were hauling logs for that new ranger cabin on the northeast corner of the island. Bill Simpson was there."
"I think I remember something about that," said Jake, "but my time here has been a little slim the last few years."
"I remember there was a lot of radio traffic," said Stanton. "The Coast Guard and Park Service went nuts trying to make arrangements. They did a good job. Took the guy off Otter Island by MedEvac helicopter."
The Ultimate Resolution Page 13
