by Trey Martini
The opening of the door jars Nan and her camera into action. "Holy Shit. That shot could buy me a new rack."
Inside the Lincoln a high-speed camera whirs.
As Anna's chauffeur closes the door behind her, a primal screen can be heard from Liam's brownstone. Buddy barks once very loudly and begins to howl.
CHAPTER 2
San Francisco
A cuckoo clock sounds twice in the hallway of a Pacific Heights Victorian in San Francisco. Claire Randolph Morrelli runs manicured fingers through her long blonde French braid, releases a golden hair clip and sighs. "Damn," she confirms the hour on a wall clock and groans again, "so late."
As she waits for her laptop to power down, Claire picks up a framed photo and studies it, her face locked in an angry scowl. The photo shows the same dark man in the picture on Liam’s piano. Judge Tony Morrelli was 33 when the family portrait was taken at his Superior Court swearing-in ceremony. Time seems to have frozen for Tony, he's still youthfully dark and classically handsome. Six-year-old twin sons Jonathan and Lucas are on his lap. With arms wrapped around Tony is a younger Claire, also 33 and already a successful divorce attorney. Pouting nearby is daughter Marie, 8.
As the room darkens, Claire puts the picture face down on the desk and stretches as the belt of her silk robe loosens. Now 43, her lithe frame shows no sign of the three children she has produced and the stressful legal career she has endured for almost 20 years. The only noise in the quiet home is an electronic note as her computer shuts down.
The sound of running water interrupts the silent night as Claire leaves the bathroom and enters the master suite in sheer silk pajamas. Dark curls frame the taut profile of the sleeping Tony Morrelli. In the half-light it seems that the years have been very kind to the 43 year-old judge. Claire moves in close to him on the broad bed and whispers an invitation, "Tony, can I get you anything?" Claire slowly runs her hand through his dark hair.
Tony rolls over, snoring softly.
Claire turns slowly and an angry scowl spreads across her face. She picks up the alarm clock, sets the time and slams the clock back down on the nightstand with a bang. Facing away, Tony’s eyes open briefly and what could be a tear glints in the dim light from the full moon.
In the sunshine of an unusually bright San Francisco early morning, Claire is in the master bathroom with her blow dryer. She has left the connecting door open and makes no attempt at noise control. Dressed and ready for work, Claire slams the bathroom door as she passes the bed on her way out of the bedroom.
Tony reaches up for her.. "Missed you last night, Claire." She slaps his hand away.
Claire glares at Tony and moves away. "Sure you did Tony. I’m not that stupid. I need to go in early. Bills to pay."
He reaches up to give her a hug but she avoids him, slamming the door as she leaves the room. Moments later, a garage door is heard closing below.
Alone in the bed, Tony’s breath quickens. Eyes closed, he shudders at his release.
Thirty minutes later, Tony is dressed for work. Carrying sheets, his own clothes and those Claire left on the floor, he calls to the sleeping kids. "Marie–6:30. Bring your sheets down. Cleaners are coming today."
18-year-old Marie is not a morning person. "EFF'ing go away. I still have ten minutes."
Ignoring Marie's tantrum, Tony is remarkably cheerful. He continues down the hallway in the large home and continues knocking on doors. "Jon. Up. Bring your sheets. Jon!"
Jon is not a morning person. "It's still early. Please just leave me alone."
Tony pushes. "Jon! Up! Sheets now. Jon!" He walks to the next door and bangs hard with a closed fist.
"Luke, wake up. Bring down your sheets and dirty clothes. Come on–hustle!"
Luke was a colicky baby and his disposition hasn’t changed. "Fuck off. It's early!" he mutters.
Tony chooses his battles and pretends he didn’t hear the remark. He continues downstairs, starts the washer in the kitchen hallway, and leaves the lid open for the machine to fill.
In faded St. Paul's gym clothes, with sleepy eyes already locked on their cell phones, the boys shuffle into the kitchen and throw their laundry on the floor in front of the waiting washer. The smell of bacon wakes them up and they crowd each other for the juices and scrambled eggs already set on the table.
In white shirt with apron around a trim middle, Tony flips an omelet and moves to jazz as his two sons watch. In a gallant effort to brighten the morning, he bows as he sets an omelet on a plate by the range.
Jon speaks first, as is usual. He has his father’s dark looks, groans at Tony’s contortions and smiles with the same dimples that still brighten Tony’s face in good times. "How'd you learn to dance like that, Dad?"
Blonde and blue-eyed with his mother’s sharp WASP features, Luke joins in. "You mean like a fag?"
Tony Morrelli is stunned but controlled. "Lucas, you know that’s not a word we use around here."
Jon whacks his brother on the head. "Yeah, Lucifer, lighten up."
Luke persists. "O.K., where’d you learn to dance like an effeminate homosexual, Dad, in Berkeley?"
Tony has the patience of a saint. "At Yale, where I met your mom."
Marie drops her laundry on the kitchen floor and takes a seat at the table. Now 19 and a University of San Francisco freshman, she has the same petulant look as the child in the photo. She has been listening to the conversation and adds her own comment. "Not at Yale. And the Ice Queen didn’t teach you to groove–she moves like there’s a nun’s ruler up her butt. Maybe private lessons in The Village?
Tony patiently serves Marie her omelet and smiles as though he means it. "A Spanish omelet for the most beautiful senorita in San Francisco De La Baia."
Marie pushes the plate back. "Get that Dago grease away from me."
Jon can't resist a comic correction. "An Italian omelet would be Dago grease. This is a Spanish omelet–therefore it's Spic grease."
Luke ups the warfare. "What Marie is saying is she hates all the pasta that stuck to her hips and not her boobs. And she'd prefer to get her calories from a Bloody Mary at breakfast.
Marie clenches her fists and pounds Luke on the back. "I hate living in this house!"
Luke flinches and laughs. "DUI at 17. This place may suck but it beats living in jail."
Marie grabs Luke by the hair and hits him on the back of the head. "Next time I’ll use my knife."
The boys hoot with laughter and reach across the table to give each other a high five and bump knuckles.
Jon is the lead comedian. "Why’re 10% of 18-year-old men gay?" He asks to the kitchen.
Luke is game. "10%! I don’t know–why?"
Jon grins. "18 year old girls–I mean women."
Marie slams Jon on the head with her spoon. Jon howls.
The landline rings as the fight continues. Tony checks the caller ID. "Quiet, it's Mom."
Perfectly-groomed and seated at a large glass desk in her high-rise law office, chrome letters on Claire's office door indicate her status: 'Claire Randolph Morrelli, Esq., Senior Partner'. Claire has turned away from the door and leans back to take in the San Francisco view. Behind her, and leaning on her office door, managing partner Bernie Lyon listens in. Tall, gray, and on the wrong side of 55, Bernie's bloated body is wrapped by Armani.
The kitchen phone rings a second time. Marie grabs. Tony wins. Marie retaliates by hitting the speaker button. Tony continues, "Hello, Hon. How's your morning?"
Claire is curt, "I thought we agreed–classical music to calm the children in the morning."
Tony remains upbeat. "Nobody outclasses Ella. Except you, Claire. Missed you this morning."
"You didn’t miss me last night when I needed you–and haven’t missed me for weeks." She is an unhappy woman and it shows.
Tony blushes. "We’re on Speaker here, Hon."
Claire doesn't seem to care. "Don’t forget to pick up the boys after practice."
Tony is surprised. "Isn’t today your sh
ort day?"
Claire is impatient. "I don’t work 9 to 5 for the government. Partners’ meeting tonight. I need to collect on all my hours–tuition’s due."
"Partners’ meeting? On a Friday night? I thought we could go to…"
Claire interrupts. "Little Italy, drink too much wine? A second Morrelli DUI? Another $20,000 to keep the lid on a drunk driving charge? I’ll be late…"
Tony is used to losing battles with Claire and rebounds calmly. "I should be able to get the boys… if I can’t, I’ll send Marie or Dad. Or, there’s the bus."
"Busses are dangerous; your father’s too old to drive my sons; and I’ll never trust Marie again."
Marie gestures obscenely at the insult. "Bitch," she whispers.
Tony ignores Marie and speaks over her. "She’s been driving 2 years…"
"Both of them drunk. You will get the boys."
"We could have a late dinner…"
"Not tonight. It’s my turn to be tired." She hangs up before Tony can respond.
Now it's Marie's turn to lead the comedy. "Why’re 20% of 40-year-old men gay?"
Tony is surprised and confused. "20%–really? I don’t know–why?"
"40-year-old menopausal women."
Tony stifles a laugh and tries again with Marie. "Can you get the boys after polo–our secret."
Marie stands up to leave. "You heard the boss. Besides, I gotta date." She opens the door to the garage.
Tony calls out as Marie holds the door. "Wait, who's the date?"
"Ask Mom–I told her. You can discuss it tonight–it’ll give you something to do in bed."
Tony knows he's lost that argument. "Did you bring down your clothes?"
Marie sneers. "They’re on the floor. You blind?"
Tony is finally working up a head of steam. "Put your colored stuff in the washer before you go."
"Didn’t hear a 'please'–I’m late." Marie slams the door behind her.
The boys pick up their backpacks to leave for school.
Luke leads the way. "Dad, come on–you made us late."
Tony pushes back. "Put your stuff in the washer."
Luke won’t give in. “Don’t be such an old lady, it’s the cleaners’ job. Hurry up. What is this, a welfare state?
Chapter 3
Financial District, San Francisco
The law offices of Walker, Lyon, L.L.C, are expensively decorated in a manner clearly intended to impress new clients. From the conference room next to her office, there is a 300-degree view of the San Francisco Bay Area and every conceivable communication device and creature comfort is on display.
As Claire walks into the conference room, Bernie Lyon is at the table reviewing her prep work. He leers and pats the seat beside him. She chooses another seat on the other side of the table. "Looks good. Looks perfect…" He looks her over as he makes the double entendre. "I like what that suit does for you. Giving it all you’ve got, as usual."
Claire groans inside at the inappropriate personal remarks. She’s thankful that today he doesn’t ask her to turn around so he can do a 360 inspection of her outfit.
He pats her hand and rubs it a little. "Time to add your name to the wall?" Bernie's body language shows that sexual favors would seal the deal. He nods toward the wall where the named partners are listed in polished aluminum. "Lyon, Randolph or Lyon, Morrelli?"
Claire Morrelli can't avoid a response. Whatever else he may be, Bernie Lyon is the firm's senior partner. "Lyon, Randolph. Morrelli is–a judge–a conflict. And Randolph will always be a name that rings a bell and opens doors in San Francisco."
"Then that’s it–Lyon and Randolph."
Claire releases Bernie's hands, not buying the proposition. "Don’t forget the Walker. Walker, Lyon, Randolph. Walker your wife, daughter of Herbert Walker, the firm's founder. Meryl Walker, the brightest attorney I’ve ever met–woman or man."
Bernie smiles as though the technicality is of no importance. He changes the subject. "Let’s go. Society divorce. A good day for half the lawyers in town."
As he guides Claire to the bank of elevators, he spends an extra minute watching her backside as she checks her watch. “There’s something you should know before we go ahead with this, Claire.”
“And what’s that, Bernie?”
“The only Walker that really matters is Johnnie.”
“Thanks, for sharing, Bernie.” Claire rolls her eyes and punches the button for the parking garage. “I’ll mention that to Meryl next time I see her.”
“Good idea. Meryl knows that I like to be on a first-name basis with all my vices, Claire.”
Claire bristles at Bernie’s choice of language and jams the lobby button again–hard.
“She says I’m a mean drunk too.”
“Oh really, what a surprise!” Claire dead-pans.
“When I found out that my buddy Jim Beam sold out to some samurai in Osaka, I smashed a whole bottle of that mash. I’ve been loyal to Johnnie ever since,” Bernie seems proud of this parable of his faithfulness.”
Claire gets the message. Her future looms ahead of her as she strides out of the elevator and into the parking garage.
CHAPTER 4
University of San Francisco Campus
Although the Jesuits are usually known to operate on the less-ostentatious left of the Catholic Church, the brothers who built the University of San Francisco seem to have done so with their deep purses wide-open all the time. Construction cranes dot the campus, as a Big Oil heir makes his mark on the sprawling university grounds. As beautiful as the city that surrounds it, the USF property is a spacious and eclectic collection of classical Greek, Roman and Spanish Mediterranean buildings and modern structures that catch the eye with their beauty.
Todd Thompson is a classic blonde beauty himself; he has the glow of good health men enjoy when they're young and active. While others milk their handsome gene for the good-times it delivers, Todd has taken his physical development as seriously as his academics. Although his GPA is something more than 3.9, those who see Todd rank him a perfect 10 for his physical attributes. Also perfect in thought, word and deed, Todd would have been the perfect Boy Scout had he not also been gay. More troubling to his Salt Lake friends and family is the fact that Todd has never denied his sexuality; and has patiently gone out of his way to defend it as his right to choose. Calmly, and respectfully, he has always confronted anyone who voices even a whisper of bigotry. Todd's fearless embrace of his sexuality has evolved in San Francisco. Here, whenever he encounters a straight man with a grudge, Todd's response can be a proposition if the redneck is attractive enough to warrant the attention. Six feet tall with muscles almost as wide, Todd fears nobody; he lives his gay life unafraid.
As Todd jogs easily toward his first morning class, Marie Morrelli drives by in her Jeep Wrangler, top off and music blaring. She honks, smiles and shimmies.
Todd is focused on a podcast blaring in his headphones and ignores her.
Marie sees this as a slight and shouts, “Faggot!"
Todd turns as a campus cop whistles for Marie to stop. She accelerates instead. The policeman squints, notes her license plate number, and jots it down.
The uniformed officer is probably a decade older than Todd but he has clearly kept in shape. The cop is embarrassed, but his olive skin is too dark for the blush to register on his face or neck. "Sorry buddy, I’ll report that for you."
"Report what?" Todd checks the guy out.
The cop stutters a bit. "What that girl yelled–calling you a…name. It was a hate crime."
Todd thinks for a minute, understands the situation and gives the officer a shoulder bump. "Hate? That was probably just flirting–a pass. Believe me, I’ve had enough hate yelled at me to know the difference. I’m guessing you’re ex-military, right?”
“Marines,” the cop stands straighter as he answers.
“Then you’ve heard worse. Relax. Girls love flirting as much as guys do. If you don't respond, they challenge you with some
taunt. Since you called it a hate crime, I’m assuming she called me gay. Right?”
The young officer nods, “Right.”
Todd laughs at the cop’s awkwardness. “Relax. It's her defense mechanism–a defense against perceived rejection. That's not really a crime as far as I'm concerned. It's not like I felt threatened by her. Besides, I don't really see faggot, gay, queer or whatever as bad words.” Todd gives the cop the look. "If I get some attention from a good-looking hunk like you because some chick calls me a name I'm sure not going to complain." Todd reveals a bright wide smile perfected by three years of orthodontia. He closes his comment with another, slower shoulder bump polished off with a feel of the cop’s broad shoulders. "Dude, lighten up. Oorah!"
The cop doesn’t know how to react and remains silent. He makes a few more notes on his pad as Marie watches in fear from a safe distance.
Todd gets closer to the cop. "Can I borrow that pen for a sec, Big Guy? Got a piece of paper?"
The Marine passes the pen and his campus business card and blushes when Todd reads his name and rolls the R with thick, pursed lips and tongue on display, “RRRodrigo”.
Rodrigo Reyes looks around as Todd writes first on the card and then on his hand. Todd returns the pen and card. There's my cell number and email address. I wrote your number on my hand just now–in case. In case I think of something more to tell you. OK if I call you?" Todd winks and looks at the card, "Officer RRRReyes, maybe you could let me have another one of those contact cards,” Todd smiles an invitation. “Sometimes I have to wash this hand," Todd smirks.
Officer Rodrigo Reyes finally gets the joke and has to laugh. "Sure, here're my numbers. Call me if you change your mind about pressing charges."
Todd doesn't give up easy. "Pressing, huh. Oh, I’d like that. Sure, I'll give you a call. Maybe we can shoot some hoops. Uh, Rod." Todd flirts non-stop.
Reyes shakes his head slowly. He tries to remember how his Academy sensitivity training handled incidents like this. "Sorry, I'm taking a couple of classes to try and finish my degree. I really don't have much time to play around."
