by Dave Daren
Chapter 1
It was late afternoon on St. Patrick’s Day, and downtown Sedona was already in full Irish bloom. Discarded popcorn bags, fountain drinks, and forgotten mardi gras beads, all remnants of the morning’s parade, littered the streets and sidewalks. Along the main drag, bars and restaurants lit up for the early revelers, with shamrocks and leprechauns advertising drinks at half price.
I maneuvered my black BMW through the town center while my amazing girlfriend Vicki sat beside me in the heated leather passenger seat. We were on our way to the renowned St. Patrick’s Day bash at the mansion of our new millionaire client, Alister O’Brien.
Tonight, the dress code was casual. Vicki wore slim fitting jeans, thigh high brown boots, and a starched white dress shirt with a light brown sport jacket. She was Korean American, and her ethnic features added a sort of exotic tone that played like the glamorous sophisticate from the big city that she was.
I reached over the center console and squeezed her hand, and she smiled back at me.
“Are we ready for the inner circle of Sedona?” I asked her.
“I don’t think we have a choice,” she said. “From what I understand about Alister O’Brien, once you’re on his radar, you’re either in the inner circle, or you’re in the outer circle.”
I sighed. “Yep. Here we are.”
“Here we are,” she said.
Vicki and I had actually made it on the invite list, a Sedona VIP shortlist which also included the mayor, Andrea McClellan, and the entire city council, minus the recently disgraced Reba McQuaid. We got our invite when Alister’s last lawyer beat him in a frisbee golf game and the eccentric millionaire fired him in one of his legendary rages. Thomas Earhardt, the lawyer who had represented him for the last forty years, had given me a congratulatory phone call.
“Good luck,” he had said. “You’re going to need it. He’s a live one.”
With such a reputation preceding him, I approached the first social event with this new client with a fair amount of hesitation. Business hadn’t been bad so far in Sedona, it had been great in fact, but we certainly weren’t in a position to turn away a client like Alister. No one was. He made it in the copper boom in the sixties, and the man was worth over fifty million.
Alister had heard that Vicki and I moved from Los Angeles, and within a few months we had become an important part of the town’s legal community. He attributed this to the prodigious skill of an ambitious “sharp shooter.”
I attributed this to a few lucky breaks, and the foundational experience I had gained while busting my ass as a partner in a high powered L.A. law firm. Most of the stuff I dealt with in Sedona was small potatoes compared to how I had spent most of the last decade. Nonetheless, Alister invited me to a power lunch, with the notable exclusion of Vicki. This resulted in Alister being added to Vicki’s not so VIP list.
We met in old gentleman’s style at his country club. By the end of it, Alister, his business partner Earnie Green, and I lounged in a dimly lit backroom, in mahogany leather chairs over cigars and brandy. The whole thing reminded me of something from a schmoozy movie.
I guess I had watched enough of such movies to effect the Godfather-esque scenario he wanted to see in a “young gun” potential lawyer, and I closed the deal.
Honestly, it wasn’t half bad. The success rush of being invited to the old money boys club was charming, even if it was a bit out of date. Of course, that’s not what I told Vicki.
“He’s an old generation chauvinist,” I had told her. “It’s just the way they did things in his day, and he’s not going to change. You watched Mad Men. That was his game, his world.”
“Call it what you want,” she said. “He’s a sexist pig.” Vicki wasn’t one to mince words or hide her feelings.
“It doesn’t change the color of his money,” I said as I couldn’t exactly disagree. “Hey, at least we still have Jasmine.”
Jasmine Stone was an up-and-coming pop diva we had just taken on. She was a local artist who had actually made it big and wanted to stay true to her roots by having us represent her. Last month, she released the song “Purple Stilettos” that’s currently played ad nauseam on every radio station in America, and she was now gearing up for a tour with Lady Gaga.
Jasmine was definitely a good payday, but I somehow got a sense that she had ulterior motives for choosing me as a lawyer. She never did anything overt, but I got the sense that those motives involved briefs, but not the legal kind.
That was why she wanted me to come out to L.A. for a few days to be part of her entourage, presumably to ensure all her contractual bases were covered.
I sent Vicki, and I stayed in Sedona and time traveled to the bad old days of the 1950s with Alister. Of course, I never shared any of these private reservations with my girlfriend.
Vicki suddenly pointed up the hill. “Is that it up there?”
Ahead was a gated compound directly at the street’s dead end, and a glance at the GPS proved her right.
“Holy shit,” I said.
The three-story house settled neatly into the picturesque Sedona red rocks. At least I think it was three stories. It was difficult to tell. Multiple levels rose and fell throughout the palatial estate. Tiered white paned windows dotted the red brick at dizzying intervals, with ornate wrought-iron balcony railings liberally scattered throughout the stately architecture.
“So this is what we get when we’re seventy?” she asked.
I laughed and winked. “Stick with me, I’ll get you the hook-up.”
She laughed. “How do you know it won’t be me hooking you up? Jesus, Henry, one month with Alister and you’re already becoming sexist.”
“Sexist?” I said. “I’m a millennial. Household sexual politics are so outdated to us, we barely even understand the question. If you want to mow the lawn while I do the cooking, be my guest.”
“Hard pass, I’ve had your cooking,” she giggled.
“Wow, now which of us is reinforcing negative gender stereotypes?” I joked. I was sure it wasn’t beneficial for me to say anything further on the subject, so I just pulled into the drive. The gates were open for the party and Lexuses and other mid-level luxury vehicles filled the private cul-de-sac.
We exited the car, and I noticed Vicki pause for a split second. She took a breath and composed her full confidence. I don’t know what she felt she had to worry about. At twenty-five, she was an elegant, modern L.A. woman, and there was nothing Sedona could throw at her that she couldn’t handle. She was a force of nature.
Vicki and I originally met at work. I was a Sedona expatriate who had left town after high school and never looked back. I had been living in Los Angeles and working at a glitzy entertainment law firm, where I made sure sexy pop icons and spoiled film stars got all the money they had coming to them.
She was an up-and-coming career woman working for our firm as a star paralegal, but she had dreams of making it as a lawyer. With the California bar exam notorious for being the most difficult in the country, no matter how many times she tried, it seemed Vicki Park was forever damned to the purgatory of half-fulfilled dreams.
So it was. I was a partner, and she was a paralegal. We were separated enough by rank that we didn’t have all the politics of career competition between us, so something else started developing. For years, we enjoyed a coded flirtatious relationship, but we always kept it work appropriate.
It just might have stayed that way if my sister hadn’t been accused of murder. I had to take a personal leave and come back to Sedona to defend her. While I was stuck in Arizona sorting through murder evidence, backlogged security footage, and the relational baggage of “coming home,” Vicki was back in L.A. realizing she couldn’t live without me.
Without warning, she sh
owed up on my parents’ doorstep and insisted on helping with the case. This was more than fine with me, as I was lost and grateful for help from someone who knew what they were doing. The problem was, I was only licensed to practice in California, and Vicki wasn’t licensed to practice law anywhere.
So, we both busted our tails to pass the bar exam in Arizona. To make a very long story short, we got Harmony exonerated. But none of that was possible without the help of local crime blogger AJ Castillo.
After the dust settled, it occurred to us that there was more opportunity for us here. Vicki had become a licensed attorney in Arizona. Plus, our win had generated enough buzz that my phone was blowing up with new cases. As for AJ, she was a lost post-high school kid, but she had wicked skills as an investigator and had just helped crack a murder case.
It had become clear that the three of us had something here. That was the beginning of what is now Sedona Legal. Now, six months later, here we were, climbing the final rungs of the social ladder.
“I think I see the mayor over there,” Vicki said.
Sedona mayor Andrea McClellan quickly moved through the drive in luxury jeans and heels, her dark blond hair in long curls down her back. She was all smiles as a security guard waved her into the house.
I turned to Vicki. “We have officially reached the grown-up’s table.”
She laughed. “We have. Now let’s go kick some ass.”
Inside was an expansive great hall with a winding marble staircase. Guests and waiters with trays wandered around, the wine already flowing and the laughter getting louder.
As soon as we walked in, Mayor McClellan noticed Vicki’s handbag. Or at least I think that’s what I heard amidst the clamor of voices. They fell into a conversation about fashion and shopping.
I politely tried to follow for a moment, but then got lost somewhere around some independent fashion designer who had a local shop that was all the rage in town. I was mainly just was impressed that my girlfriend was bonding with the mayor. I didn’t want to mess that up.
I looked around the great hall and noticed the vaulted ceilings looked like they were supposed to be reminiscent of St. Peter’s Basilica or something. I noticed a fresco of African wildlife painted into the ceiling.
“It took five years to have that done.” I turned to see who was speaking.
“Michael Knapp.” I recognized him instantly.
“Someone has to be,” he said.
Michael Knapp was a fit and toned black man in his mid-thirties. He was wearing a black polo and thrust his hands into khaki pants as he surveyed the room.
“Who did the fresco?” I asked.
“They had a team of art students do it,” he said proudly. “There were about thirty of them. They did it in phases.”
Michael was the new chairman of the city council and arts league after Vicki and I had gotten the last one arrested. Reba McQuaid had been embezzling money left and right, but it all came out when the head of the film festival died, and she and her allies unsuccessfully attempted to hide his body so they could keep stealing his money.
Unfortunately for McQuaid and company the cover up didn’t work, so they tried to pin it on an innocent bystander whom Vicki and I defended. In the process of defending him, we uncovered a fraud scheme that went back decades, and she and a handful of others now rotted in jail, awaiting trial. Or so I had last heard. But it was this high profile meddling that originally caught Alister’s attention and ultimately landed us here.
“Is Reba out on bail?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Yeah. She’s been lying low, looking for a good lawyer. Know of anybody?”
I laughed heartily. “No I don’t. Not for Reba McQuaid. She’s going to jail for a long time.”
“Can’t say I’m disappointed,” he said. “I don’t think anyone in town liked that woman.”
“This is what I’m finding out,” I said as I leaned in. “I’m always glad to see a bully get what--”
Suddenly a booming voice resonated from the staircase and into the great hall.
“Hear ye, hear ye,” announced Alister O’Brien.
He was wearing a full dress highland military kilt uniform. He had a black beret cap, and a fringed gold sash across his midsection. The green and black plaid kilt reached just below his knee, where he wore knee-high socks, and white lace-up boots that reminded me of something George Washington might wear. On either side of him were…
“The girlfriends,” Michael whispered in my ear.
Two twenty-year-old blonde bombshells flanked his sides on the staircase. Tall, slender, curvaceous and buxom, they were almost bursting out of their green evening dresses. They looked like they just came from a Victoria’s Secret runway show, and they might just have. Michael mimed a whistle and I laughed.
“Do they have names?” I asked. “Or are they just decoration?”
“Mila and Emily.” Michael said as he scanned the ceiling in thought. “But they got nothing on your lady.”
“Don’t tell Alister that, he might take her away from me,” I said with a laugh as I gestured toward Vicki on the other side of the room.
Michael laughed. “You’re right. You’ve got yourself a keeper.”
Alister, satisfied with the mostly undivided attention of his guests, then declared, “Let the festivities of St. Patrick commence. Let us retire to the south lawn for dancing and drinks.”
A thunderous applause erupted, and Alister and the girls ceremoniously descended the staircase into “the people.” The partygoers, whose number approached over a hundred now, all moved toward the outdoor area.
“They’ve got a Celtic band flown in all the way from Dublin,” Michael told me.
“Is that right?” I was impressed. “No expense spared.”
Michael laughed. “Spares no expense. It should be on the O’Brien family crest.”
“His kids are in town, right?” I asked.
Michael rolled his eyes. “Don’t even get me started. They’ve been here less than twenty-four hours, and they’ve already had multiple run-ins with the cops. But, you know, it’s Alister’s kids, so...”
“Why do they come home anyway?” I asked.
He nodded in Alister’s direction. “Same reason we’re all here. To kiss that kilted ass.”
“I guess we can’t fault them for that, then,” I said.
“Maybe not, but we can damn well fault them for everything else,” he said.
We both laughed and we reached a set of open French doors that led onto a lawn. The guests flowed outside, and the band burst into a rousing Celtic dance number. There were loud cheers as a crowd formed and Arizona couples fell all over themselves attempting authentic Irish step dancing.
The expansive garden had buffet tables at one end, several seating pavilions, and a stage. McFlaherty was the name of the band according to the screen behind them, and it flashed scenes of the Irish countryside, alternating with stock footage of modern Dublin.
I looked out over the crowd and noticed people I had either known as community leaders in my childhood, or that I had read about in the paper since I had been back. There were bankers, judges, renowned business owners, and even a state senator. The senator asked for a word with Michael, who excused himself, and I went to find refreshments.
I looked around for Vicki, but she seemed lost in the high heeled jungle of schmoozing. That’s one thing I loved about her. She never met a stranger she couldn’t talk to and instantly befriend. It made my life so much easier.
I found the catering pavilion and decided to pop in for a drink. As soon as I ducked in under the white tent, there they were.
The O’Brien children.
They were around my age, but somehow I hadn’t really encountered them growing up in Sedona. I think they had gone to boarding school in Europe or something.
The siblings were two women and one man standing in an isolated group. They were all in their twenties, so impeccably dressed they were fashion forward on the edge of abs
urd. Even after spending half a decade in Holly-weird, it took me a few minutes to realize what I was looking at.
The youngest of them seemed not to know the difference between avant garde fashion and a straight up Halloween costume. She appeared to be dressed as a cupcake, with a flared skirt, pink and white striped bodice, and knee high striped socks. The other woman looked relatively normal, wearing a string of white pearls with a 1950s style house-dress cinched at the waist.
The most bizarre one was the guy. He wore a baseball cap and a matching lavender button-down shirt and shorts set, but they were made entirely of lace. Patterned lace. The whole outfit was see through, save for some matching underpants. Tonight, they all leaned against the pavilion, and their body language all screamed “take me anywhere but here.”
“And the thing is,” the woman in the 1950s dress was saying, “being a socialite is a job. I mean, where would the world be if there weren’t socialites to chair foundations, attend fundraisers, and create fashion shows? And, really, if you think about it, what we provide is a valuable service to the world. We provide a vision, a goal. Poor people work their lives so that their children or grandchildren can one day be us. We give their work lives meaning. I mean, why else would people sneak into this country to be like, maids and janitors? You know, we are the ‘better life’” that people come to this country to achieve.”
“Omigod, Shannon. Could you be more snobby?” the young man said.
“No, seriously,” Shannon insisted. “It’s like, the ecosystem, of like capitalism. We hold an important function. And besides, do you know how much time it takes to look like this?” Shannon made a rounding motion around her face.
I leaned against the buffet table and pretended not to be watching. But I found the moment so amusing, I couldn’t bring myself to walk away.
Shannon continued, “All the hair and make-up and shopping that is required to be the icon that people expect me to be? I mean, I’m Alister O’Brien’s daughter! I have over eight hundred thousand Twitter followers. Do you know how many people look up to me, want to be me? Do you know much pressure that is?”
