Chapter 34
John Slate, Esquire
“Is Mr. Slate in?” Robert asked the pleasant-voiced receptionist on the other end of the telephone. “I’m Robert Baxter. Charles Fleming, my grandfather, told me to give him a call.”
He had called as soon as he got back to his dorm room, waiting only long enough to grab a cola out of his mini ‘fridge, pop open the top, and take a large gulp. He then sat the can on the end table squeezed between the left end of the futon and the wall. He then lay down on the futon and held the telephone handset up to his left cheek as he looked up at the ceiling, wondering what fate had in store for him next. Were even more changes around the corner?
“Hold, please. I’ll see if he’s available.”
He waited for no more than thirty seconds. “Hello,” a commanding voice said. “This is John Slate.”
“Hi,” a meeker voice responded. “This is Robert Baxter, Charles Fleming’s grandson.”
“Certainly. Chuck said you’d be calling. You interested in law?”
“Yes sir, at least I have been the last several months.”
“I understand why. How’s the recovery coming along?”
“Well, thank you.”
“Are you doing anything this afternoon?”
“Not really.”
“Good. Why don’t you come to the office at 4:00 so we can talk about that job?”
“Thanks. I’m looking forward to it.”
Both hung up. Robert sat up, swung his feet to the floor, and stood. He walked the three feet that stood between him and his study covey and pulled out the chair. He sat down, scooted the chair closer to the desk, and then reached up to turn on the brass-and green-glassed banker’s lamp that he preferred when studying. Although it was daytime, the placement of the window limited the amount of light that reached his desk so the lamp was essential for studying, no matter what time of day it was. He pulled his advanced trigonometry notebook off the bookshelf above the desk and opened it to the course syllabus, reviewing his homework assignment for Tuesday.
“Wow,” he exclaimed with a chuckle. “That’s a lot of work.” He looked at the digital clock sitting on the shelf over his desk: 2:00 P.M. He was tempted to take a nap for the next hour-and-a-half. The six hours of driving back and forth to Darkwell had left him spent, but he suspected that if he gave into the temptation he might not wake up in time to make it to the job interview. He decided to study instead. He estimated how long it would take to get it done, close to three hours, and proceeded to open the textbook and read the assigned chapter, essential if he had any hope of completing the dozen or so problems assigned for the next day’s class discussion: an hour-and-a-half before the interview, and another after that should do it. He knew of a Starbucks near Slate’s law firm, so he decided to study there instead, to fall back to a routine that would help him get the case off his mind. He threw his textbook, class notebook, and cracked laptop computer into his book back, pausing a brief moment as seeing the crack in the computer’s shell reminded him how it got broken. “Didn’t even get a new laptop out of the deal,” he said, laughing, as he zipped up the bag, stood, and left the room.
Two hours later he was sitting in the plush waiting room in of Slate, Jones & Walker, P.A. The receptionist kindly offered him a soda, which he declined, asking for a bottled water instead (one cola a day was his limit—that and all the coffee he could drink!), so he sat in a very comfortable love seat sipping water and reading a three-month-old issue of Sports illustrated, waiting for John Slate to see him.
He didn’t wait long. He heard a boisterous voice followed by laughter through the leftmost of the two large, solid mahogany, ornately carved doors that separated the reception area from the lawyers’ offices. The door burst open and a grinning average height but athletically built man in dark green khaki pants, white shirt, black exotic skin cowboy boots, red tie, and brown blazer, closed the distance between him and Robert in seconds. His attire and boisterous demeanor reminded Robert of his grandfather, though in a much more compact package. Once in handshake distance, Slate shot out his right hand to Robert, which he awkwardly shook with his one fully functional appendage.
“Sorry about that,” John Slate, Esquire, said, recognizing his mistake, as he stuck out his other hand for a more vigorous greeting. “Robert, it’s good to meet you in person.”
“Thanks.”
“So . . .” he began, as he walked to Robert’s side, placed his hand on his shoulder, and gently guided him back through the double-wide doors from whence he came. After the door they walked through closed behind them, he asked, “Are you interested in law?”
They were walking side by side as they made their way through two more corridors to John’s office as Robert hesitated to answer. He was getting a little more comfortable, so nervousness wasn’t the reason he didn’t answer immediately. “Interested in law” just didn’t seem to be the right phrase to describe his situation. “Accepting the consolation prize” seemed a more appropriate reason for him to be walking through the halls of a law firm while his teammates were hurling and hitting fastballs, and working on their fielding skills. Yet, instinct told him that no one wants to hire an employee who can’t express himself enthusiastically, as in wanting to be in that particular place at that moment. So he smiled, puffed out his chest, and loudly proclaimed, “Absolutely.” Suddenly and without notice, Robert realized that he actually believed his statement. The thought dawned on him that he had always wanted to be like his Grandpa Charles. Charles Fleming, the attorney who was admired and loved by everyone. He smiled even bigger at the thought.
“Good,” John said as they arrived at a closed office door, which looked to Robert to be even bigger than the two double doors in the reception area combined. He turned the knob, pulled open the gigantic door, and gently pushed Robert inside in front of him. “Take a seat,” John said, motioning toward a small round conference table to the left of his huge mahogany desk, which was directly in front of them. The back of the desk chair faced away from to a large plate-glass window overlooking what appeared to be a pond surrounded by trees and flowers. Robert silently reflected on how pompous and even obnoxious everything seemed to be at John’s firm. It contrasted sharply with his grandfather’s offices. Charles’s office did have three suites and a conference room, but those accommodations were understated and quite dated. The carpet was a little worn, the furniture older and well used, and the doors were just doors. Charles often bragged about the great deals he got at various furniture auctions. He was frugal, and John and his partners clearly were not.
“What a view,” Robert said enthusiastically.
“Thanks. It’s the biggest office in the building, with the best view in Bedford, I’d guess. Of course, there aren’t that many good views in Bedford.”
Robert nodded.
“Who knows?” John replied as he winked his right eye at Robert. “Maybe someday it’ll be yours.”
Robert let out an slight chuckle. John did the same, though less awkward than Robert’s.
“What do you think of criminal defense?”
“Grandpa’s a defense attorney. I think it’s necessary.” He hesitated as he considered whether he felt the same about Michael Thomas. “They deserve the best defense they can afford, I suppose.”
“We do some criminal defense, though mostly personal injury and plaintiffs’ work. Do you think you can put aside any prejudices your recent situation may have created?”
Robert sat silent for a second, looking down toward the table’s surface, seriously considering what was just asked of him. For some unknown reason, an answer popped into his head, one that gave him complete peace in what he knew he had to do. He looked back up at John, eyes piercing into the man’s soul. “Absolutely.”
John grinned.
“Then let’s not waste any time. I need a runner right now. You’ll report to work in the afternoons and file motions, petitions, whatever needs to be filed with the courts, and do erra
nds for the attorneys and their assistants. Can you handle that?”
Looking a little disappointed, the smile now gone, he said, “Yes.”
“After you’ve been here awhile, we’ll make use of that impressive intellect of yours. I’ll expect you to dip your toes into legal research, and perhaps write a legal memorandum or two. Understand?”
The smile returned. “You bet.”
“Good,” John replied, sticking out his left hand this time. Robert took it and shook John’s hand firmly, vigorously sealing the deal.
PART IV
There is no revenge so complete as forgiveness.
Josh Billings (1818-1885)
Broken: A story of hope and forgiveness Page 49
