by Gregg Loomis
"I don't mean full day care. There's a nine-to-noon nursery at the church. Maybe he should have a chance to be around other children."
Wynton leaned back into a wing chair, its pale satin cover mirroring the fire. "He's not exactly alone. There must be a dozen kids his age in the park every day."
One of the reasons they had selected this house was the park across the street. Ansley Park, one of Atlanta's older in-town subdivisions, dated back to the early part of the last century, when developers routinely left acres open for the enjoyment of the neighborhood. Since the green spaces here were surrounded by residences and streets where parking was generally prohibited, the park visitors tended to live within walking distance. As a practical matter, the spaces were more private than public, free from the panhandlers, bums, and more sinister denizens of the city's larger and more accessible open areas.
"Yeah," Paige conceded, "but there are bigger kids, too. Some of them play rough with the littler ones. Besides, some sort of regimen would do him good, prepare him for school."
School? The kid was only three. But she was showing definite symptoms of having already made up her mind. Wynton knew better than to try to breach that bulwark. Better to save his shot and shell for a fight over something that really mattered.
Like her threat to make a walk-in closet out of his small office upstairs.
CHAPTER 8
Cathedral of St. Philip
2744 Peachtree Road
Atlanta
January 22, 2013
11:42 A.M.
EMMA MARCH WAS COLLECTING THE CRAYONS she had distributed to the sixteen three- and four-year-olds in her class. The job would take about ten minutes, leaving five for her to take a look at the work produced and to make sure her charges all had on their coats, hopefully the same ones they were wearing three hours earlier. The mothers complained when their children came home in the wrong wrap. St. Philip's Day Care Center requested each child have his or her name sewn into each article. Few of the parents took the time to comply, particularly the ones who complained the most about the mix-ups.
Once each child had on a coat, some coat, she would release the small stampede toward the line of SUVs in the parking lot behind the church. Then, alone in her classroom, she would tidy up and be done for the rest of the day.
The job didn't pay much but she didn't need much, either. Wilbur, her late husband, had left her "well fixed," as the mothers of her charges would say. Teaching preschool gave her something to do when she was not traveling with friends on one of those marvelous all-inclusive, guided trips to Egypt, southwest France, or the Greek Islands. The guides were almost always attractive young people who guarded their customers against all the hazards of foreign lands such as natives who perversely refused to speak English and accommodations that were not up to American standards.
Wilbur had not been much for travel. Unless playing golf every spring, summer, and fall weekend at their cottage in Highlands, North Carolina, can be called travel. At least Wilbur had gone out just as he would have wanted, putter in hand on the sixteenth green. She had sold the cottage almost as soon as Wilbur had been buried and she never intended to see Highlands again.
The last assignment for the class that day had been to draw and color a picture of themselves, a self-portrait, as it were. Her primary objective was to fill time until class let out at noon. But on another level, according to the education courses Emma had taken decades ago when teaching was one of the few professions open to a Southern lady, such drawings could tell Emma a lot about her pupils: a figure too big to fit on the paper showed a lack of planning skills, scribbles of only dark colors might detect an early personality problem, and so on. The possibility of disturbed personalities was remote at St. Philip's. Most of the work would be multicolored irregular circles, zigs and zags, and the sort of things happy, well-adjusted three- and four-years-olds were capable of.
A few of the more mature had actually done stick drawings, somewhat recognizable as people. Most stood in front of red or orange suns, a few in front of wobbly rectangles that might have been houses. One displayed a brown blob at the bottom with an appendage at each end. Perhaps the family dog or cat.
All had big half-moon smiles, all but one.
She had leaned over the little boy's shoulder for a closer look. A figure clothed not in the many hues contained in a box of crayons, but horizontal black and white stripes. A faux zebra shirt? No, the man, if that was what it was, had a striped cap.
"Who is that?" she asked.
The child, a new student named Wynton, looked up at her with despair far beyond his years and whispered so low she had trouble hearing him. "Me."
Shortly before she had married Wilbur, Emma had taught second grade in the city's public schools. The system had been changing complexion both literally and figuratively. The three R's had been replaced by self-esteem, political correctness, and social promotions. Many of her pupils were bussed in from areas of the city of which she had previously been unaware and spoke something only remotely akin to English. Teaching became incidental to trying to keep some semblance of order. Dollars spent per student skyrocketed while test scores plummeted. The school board did, however, have one of the nation's most elaborate new headquarters. Parents ignored scheduled teacher conferences, and PTA meetings consisted of far more T than P. Once or twice Emma had asked her pupils to draw their families. Very few included fathers. Some of those that did showed the male parent in an orange prison jumpsuit.
It was hardly a place for a young, single lady, a fact Wilbur pointed out.
One day, a seven-year-old announced, "Miz March, dat mu'fucker done stole my pencil."
Her resignation was on the principal's desk before the end of the day.
But this was St. Philip's, a private day-care facility in the heart of Atlanta's affluent Buckhead district. Parents of children here did not go to prison. Or rarely went to prison. There had been that unfortunate affair a couple of years ago involving an investment counselor who claimed he had simply made an honest mistake or two. Over a million dollars' worth.
"When did you wear clothes like that?" Emma asked Wynton.
"Long time," was the listless answer.
"Long time?" Perhaps Halloween. That would be it. Some tasteless adult had costumed this darling child as a convict. Someone with a truly warped sense of humor.
But wait. Emma knew who this little boy's father was, Wynton Charles, son of a prominent lawyer and vestryman right here at St. Philip's. Young Wynton also was with a law firm here and vestryman, too. His wife . . . what was her name? She came from somewhere up north. Maybe they did things like that up there.
Emma continued to ponder all this as she straightened up the room. Then she saw it: the drawing. The rest of the children had taken their work home to show parents. Little Wynton had left his. She started to run after him, maybe catch the child in time to give this back to him before he left. She stopped at the door. Perhaps he didn't want it. She held it up and took another look. An inverted "U" for a mouth, this face was not happy. Were those tears? She glanced from the table Wynton shared with three other children to the wastebasket. Put at his place or throw it away?
Neither.
The drawing could be evidence of some sort of personality disorder. Or abuse. Emma was certain child abuse was far more prevalent than even the scandal-hungry media declared it to be, although, thank heavens, she had never come across an example. But she intended to be ready when she did.
She looked around the room again, this time as though making sure she was not being watched. If there was a problem, and she wasn't saying there was, she did not want to be accused of not acting quickly. One thing she had learned in years of education, public and private: superiors were there to deal with the problems.
CHAPTER 9
Law Offices of Swisher & Peele
1180 Peachtree Street
January 24
1:04 P.M.
WYNTON CHARLES JR. WAS TRYING TO k
eep his attention on the meeting. Outside the windows of Conference Room Four, Atlanta got a hint of the springtime to come. The sun ruled over a cloudless sky. Twenty-four floors down, pedestrians, many in shirtsleeves, were slowly returning from lunch as they enjoyed the unseasonably warm weather. Convertibles had their tops down. People played in the parks. In a matter of hours, the temperatures could drop to freezing, bringing sleet and snow, but until then, the city would bask in the surprising gift of sunshine.
". . . and Wynton here is thoroughly familiar with that facet of the case." The words brought him back to the confines of the room and the importance of discussions underway. Charlie Frisk, president of United Bank and Trust, had flown in from Charlotte that morning, ostensibly to help prepare for the trial of Adams et al. v. United Bank and Trust, the class-action litigation that had occupied the bulk of Wynton's time for more than two years. As everyone in the room knew, Frisk's real purpose was to access the strength of the bank's defense and to determine the feasibility of settlement. Those decisions would depend heavily on Wynton's familiarity with the factual and legal issues.
Wynton cleared his throat and forced a smile he hoped would conceal his nervousness. Junior partners did not normally meet with presidents of major corporate clients. It was a measure of his status that he had been included. Besides Frisk, there was Bill Taylor, the rainmaker who had brought the bank's business into the firm. Taylor did little other than schmooze clients and put in appearances like this. He was much more likely to be found in a barroom than a courtroom. Glen Richardson, senior litigation partner, would actually try the case but he relied heavily, if not entirely, on preparation by Wynton, who would sit second chair. Although Richardson signed the letters reporting on the case's progress, the correspondence was authored by Wynton, who also had put the defense together. In turn, Wynton had relied on several junior and senior associates to do the legal research, interview witnesses, and conduct discovery under his watchful supervision. Richardson would review the case a few days before trial with the full expectation it would be ready for him to step into the courtroom. The arrangement, like any firm business, was handled by the lowest-paid lawyer experienced enough to do the specific task and billed at the next highest hourly rate.
To be essentially in charge of trial preparation was a tremendous opportunity for Wynton, a job which, if done well, would be remembered at the annual partners' meeting. It would be remembered even more vividly if there was a screwup.
Junior partners at Swisher & Peele at any of the firm's offices did not screw up, not if they had any ambition of being senior partners.
Wynton thumbed through a stack of files as thick as several Manhattan phone directories. "As we all know, the plaintiffs have sued the bank's trust department, claiming its investments were improper in that most of them were in the stock of companies in which the bank owned substantial shares. The specific causes of action alleged consist of self-dealing, breach of fiduciary duty, failure to conduct due diligence, and related claims."
"Claims that wouldn't have been made," Frisk snorted, "if the stocks had gone up instead of down. We don't guarantee against a bear market, that stocks won't tank. The corporations we know best are the ones we own part of. That's just plain business sense. Besides, every trust we administer gives us, what is it? Unbridled discretion. Unbridled discretion as to choice of investments. That's in the trust forms you guys drew up for us."
The same thing Frisk always said when the subject came up. Same whiff of accusation, too. Wynton knew better than to mention that a number of the securities had been in decline for years. A major sell-off would have depressed their value, and the value of the bank's holdings, even more. The share price declines plus the bank's fees had depleted a number of trusts.
Wynton glanced at Richardson, received an almost imperceptible nod, and continued. "Part of the problem is that some makers of the trusts didn't sign our form. They had their own lawyers draw up the instruments. A large number of the subject trusts were set up to provide education for minor children and support for elderly widows. A jury is likely to be sympathetic."
Frisk gave a theatrical sigh. "Widows and orphans! The plaintiffs' lawyers will have the jury in tears."
"That's why we removed the case to federal court," Richardson interjected, "to minimize local influence. Juries here in Fulton County tend to be overly generous with other people's money."
The floor was Wynton's again.
"We have a number of defenses. Specifically . . ."
The door to the room opened and a young black woman entered. She glanced around the room like a bird unsure of its surroundings. "Excuse me. Mr. Charles's wife is on the phone."
Wynton felt his face flush.
Richardson scowled. "I thought I left word we weren't to be interrupted."
The woman was clearly flustered. "You did, Mr. Richardson. She says it's an emergency."
Richardson's glare at Wynton was hard as a diamond drill. "Go ahead, take it." He softened as he spoke to Frisk. "I was about to suggest a break, order a fresh pot of coffee, anyway."
As likely as he was about to jump out of the window.
Wynton felt his chest clinch. Causing an interruption of a meeting with one of the firm's biggest clients was not something Richardson was going to forget. It might be worse, though. He almost panicked as the dark possibilities flashed through his mind as he entered a vacant office next to the conference room. Jesus, what if Wynn-Three had fallen into the swimming pool? Run out in front of a truck? Swallowed something? Had the house caught on fire?
His hand shook as he punched the winking button on the phone's keyboard. "Yes?"
At least Paige's voice sounded calm. "Wynton, we have a problem."
He exhaled deeply, relieved that his son was not in immediate peril. A problem? No shit. Just a problem and she had intruded on what could be the most important meeting of his career so far? He swallowed the sour taste of his fear, letting the fright be replaced by his anger over the interruption.
"Paige, I was in a meeting with the president of United Bank and Trust. He and two senior partners are waiting. I hope this is important," he said stiffly.
"It's important, all right. I've just had a conference with Mrs. Jennins."
The name didn't register.
"Who?"
"The head of St. Philip's Day Care. She wants to speak with both of us about Wynn-Three."
Wynton was surprised to realize the sound he was hearing was the grinding of his own teeth. "Some teacher wants to talk with us and you interrupt . . ."
That all-too-familiar edge was back in her tone. "I'd think your son's welfare would take precedence over some meeting. Wynn-Three may have some sort of psychological disorder."
What the hell was going on? Paige had worked here. She knew how things were. Absent imminent nuclear attack, you did not call a junior partner out of meetings with senior partners. She was calling him about some fairy-fay psycho-babble? Wynton viewed mental health practitioners with the same skepticism he reserved for auguring chicken entrails, voodoo curses, or tarot cards. Paige had been away from Swisher & Peele too long.
"Paige," he said as patiently as he could, "as I said, I have a very important meeting going on concerning the bank litigation. As you know, a good performance could mean a lot to me professionally." He paused, unable to resist. "You do recall 'professional'? Any problems Wynn-Three might have that are not life threatening can surely wait until I get home. Okay?"
There was the sort of pause romance writers would have described as "pregnant," then, "Does that mean you won't meet with Mrs. Jennins?"
There was that grinding sound again.
"Paige, I'm going to hang up now, try to salvage the conference. That does not mean I'm not interested in our son. It does mean one of us has to earn a living. Okay?"
Her voice might as well have been dripping with icicles. "Wynton, it was as much your decision as mine that I become a full-time mother to our child. That does not, rep
eat, does not give you the right to patronize me."
He started to reply but was stopped by a disconnecting click.
CHAPTER 10
Cathedral of St. Phillip
February 1
2:20 P.M.
WYNTON STARED INCREDULOUSLY AT THE CRAYON drawing on Mrs. Jennins's desk. For this he was giving up billable hours? Because his son had scribbled something that, possibly, might be construed as a man in an old-fashioned striped prison suit, he was sitting at St. Philip's instead of preparing for trial? Swisher & Peele's announced policy was that, whether senior partner or youngest associate, family always came first. It sounded great in the firm's brochure and was an enticing inducement in recruiting. The truth was that, aside from the ability to bring in business, billable hours and performance determined all future raises and promotions. Neither were going to be enhanced by his presence here at the church office.
Over half-moon spectacles, Mrs. Jennins's watery blue eyes were shifting from Wynton to Paige and back again. "Do either of you have any idea where the child might have gotten such an image?"
Paige darted a look to where Wynn-Three was completing a tower of gaily colored building blocks. "Not a clue. We're very careful what he watches on TV, Sesame Street and the like. The only movies he's seen were Disney animations. Certainly nothing to do with prisons."
The older woman pursed her lips as though tasting the words. "Well, the concept had to come from somewhere in his environment."
Wynton shook his head. "Kids just think stuff up. I'm not convinced that picture shows anything more than a striped suit or maybe a shirt."
Mrs. Jennins impaled him with a stare. "Even so, Mr. Charles, the face is sad, reflective of unhappiness. Your son chose dark colors rather than the bright ones typical of a child Wynton's age. Neither is a good sign. Could be some unfortunate subconscious memory or a symptom of depression."
