Broken: A story of hope and forgiveness

by Kevin Mark Smith

  *****

  “Jeez!” exclaimed Brent Jones, Esquire, the Jones of Slate, Jones & Walker, P.A., otherwise known as “Jonesey.” They were sitting in Jonesey’s office, much smaller than John’s. Jonesey was in his desk chair, similar to John’s though a little smaller, and John was in one of the two plush and expensive leather client chairs across the desk from his. “I cannot believe you helped him do that. Do you realize how much trouble you might have caused us?”

  “Don’t worry,” John told his friend of twenty years and partner for the past ten. He began to scratch the crown of his semi-balding head, which had just begun to itch incessantly, a familiar sign that he knew what he did was wrong. He chuckled, trying to brush off Jonesey’s concerns. “He’s not going in a representative capacity. In fact, I had a buddy of mine pull some strings and put Robert on the perp’s family and friends list. Apparently, he is the only person other than the mom and dad who are on it. My inside man promised to erase all references to Robert once the visit is done.”

  “If you didn’t know what you did was wrong you wouldn’t have waited until now to say something,” replied Jonesey. He glanced at the top of John’s itching head. “Darn it, John, we could get censured for this, or worse. All of us, not just you, could pay for your stupidity.”

  “Trust me,” John replied.

  “Famous last words,” Jonesey said.

  John saw his friend wince at the idea of Slate, Jones, & Walker being subjected to public censure by the state bar or worse, for something so silly, so avoidable. But he said nothing. Instead, his mind began to churn out ideas about what legal maneuvering he could do to spare the firm the fallout that might arise from his lack of good judgment.

  As if he could read the thoughts of his friend, thoughts tinged with condescension and moral superiority, John almost divulged worse things he had done in the past—things that would have most certainly earned the wrath of the state bar’s disciplinary administrator. “I got away with worse things before, so chill out,” he wanted to say, but he thought better of bringing those up. Still, he just couldn’t leave his defense to just that. His trial lawyer instinct told him he had to say something to defend himself. “It’ll be all right, Jonesey. Besides, what are you worried about? Who the heck cares about the Oklahoma Bar? Do you think any of us will ever want to practice in Oklahoma?”

  It was a hollow argument, John realized, hoping Jonesey wouldn’t catch the error in his logic. Simply put, censure or disbarment in one state would automatically result in equivalent discipline in another.

  The anger vainly masked by Jonesey’s somber look seethed inside, then burst forth. “Are you kidding me?” he yelled loud enough to be heard through the extra-thick, allegedly soundproof door that separated his office from his assistants. As with his chair and desk, the door was the same type that sheltered John’s office, though slightly smaller. Two associate attorneys were walking by and heard the outburst. His secretary shuffled papers, pretending that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. She hoped that the associates would just move on. She even waved her hand in the air, motioning them to move along. They did.

  “Do you think for a moment that an incident like this won’t be reported to the Texas Bar?”

  So much for Jonesey not catching my logic error, John thought, his frown betraying the otherwise masked machinations of his trial lawyer mind. “You’re overreacting,” was all he could think to say.

  He glared at Jonesey. His concern over placing the firm in jeopardy was replaced by his own anger over a much younger and less experienced partner questioning his actions. He was the first name on their placard, after all, and didn’t have to put up with such chastisement. His ego began to cycle through all the reasons Jonesey should not be questioning him. For one, more than half of the firm’s fees came from John’s clients. He placed his hands on the edge of the desk and stood, still staring at his colleague. “Back off, Jonesey. There’s nothing to worry about. If something happens, I’ll take the heat.”

  He turned to leave and started walking toward the door.

  “When your boy gets back,” Jonesey said loud enough to get his attention, “tell him to find another job.”

  The comment stopped John dead in his tracks, but he continued to face the door, head now tilted at an angle toward the floor. “No. He asked me to help him with something and I did. He had no idea there was a problem.” Looking back at Jonesey, he added, “And there’s not. A little advice for you, gratis: you will get a lot further in life by not worrying about problems that don’t even exist yet.” He looked back toward the exit and walked toward it, slowly, making sure Jonesey knew that he was still the only three-thousand-pound gorilla in the room.