Against the Wind
J.F. Freedman
Contents
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Acknowledgments
A Biography of J. F. Freedman
To my father—one terrific lawyer
PART ONE
MY ARM IS KILLING ME. I force open my eyes enough of a slit to admit light. The shades are up, I neglected to pull them last night, the sun blasts through the windows, through my encrusted eyelids right through the retina into the back of my brain. Jesus that hurts, I’m a pathetic ball of pain this morning. I broke my newly self-imposed rule last night and went bar-hopping, that much I remember, but subsequent events are vague, to put it mildly. They’re so damn vague they’re a blank page. Getting drunk and hitting on women I’ve never met, whose sexual history is suspect at best, could and has turned out to be detrimental to my health. The last time I ventured out like that, two weeks ago Saturday night, I got the shit kicked out of me. Had to show up in court that Monday morning with a butterfly bandage over my right eye, my face an unsightly mass of lumps, bruises and contusions. My client, a devout pacifist, freaked; I was forced to ask for a continuance. Fred Hite, one of my partners, took her over, mollified her, but the incident didn’t make me any new friends in or out of court.
I’m going to open my eyes and sit up and there’s going to be a soft explosion in the back of my head like a watermelon being dropped off a third-story roof from all that house whiskey I undoubtedly drank and have no memory of and I deserve it for being such a dumb self-pitying ass and my arm is still killing me.
Maybe I broke it. Maybe I’m in the hospital. That would tear it.
Her hair is brown, but the roots are gray. It’s a tangled mat, like balled-up baling wire, and about the same consistency, as if she’d given herself a home permanent and got talking on the phone too long. She snores gently, her head resting on my shoulder like a bowling ball. Dear God tell me I didn’t. This one is major coyote arm, the only way I get out of here alive is to chew it off while she’s still sleeping. In my own apartment yet.
“You got coffee?”
“What?”
“Coffee. Just tell me where you keep it. I’ll make it.” She’s staring at me like you look through the bars in a zoo. Her eyes are bloodshot, bright red, unnaturally so, cartoonish.
I wave my free arm. “Above the sink.” She blinks, hoists herself to her feet, pads stark-naked towards the kitchen. I look at her receding back, her sagging ass. I know I was drunk but was I blind too? Jesus what else happened last night? For all I know I committed three ax murders. I’m dead in this town if anyone I know saw us together.
She’s in the bathroom. I listen to her doing her toilet. I roll over, grab her purse off the floor, rifle the wallet for her driver’s license. Doris Mae Rivera. From Truchas. Forty-six years old. Patricia (Mrs. Alexander numero uno) and I didn’t have any money, we were too new out of law school and then we had Claudia; but Holly and I, that was the society page. Successful lawyer and his attractive, devoted wife (okay, the second marriage for him and third for her, but who’s counting?), active in community affairs, we were Mr. and Mrs. Hot Shit: the ranchette north of town, the twin BMWs, the Taos ski condo. Now I’m lying on sweat-soaked sheets I haven’t changed in weeks in a rented condo a welfare mother would turn her nose up at, going through the wallet of Doris Mae Rivera (acquired last name, obviously, no Hispanic woman would be christened Doris Mae), a forty-six-year-old currently unmarried woman who probably lives in a house without plumbing; Truchas is famous for the view from its outhouses.
She flushes and I drop the wallet back into the purse. She emerges wearing my velour robe, the midnight-blue number Holly got me last Christmas from the Sharper Image catalogue for a mere two-seventy-five. One of that year’s minor gifts. Her hair’s wrapped in a towel; she must’ve looked in the mirror.
“How do you like your eggs?” she calls, rummaging in the refrigerator. Coming to the bedroom door, smiling coyly, almost shyly. Maybe we got married last night, anything’s possible.
“I don’t.” I untangle my pants from the pile on the floor, pull them on, stumble through the living room to the kitchen area; it’s all one big room, a mess. I’ve got to get a cleaning lady in here or I’ll turn into something out of Kafka. I’m close enough already: this is a sign.
“Get dressed.” I brush past her, take the O.J. from the refrigerator, drink it straight from the carton. She turns to me, her mouth a small oval. Her hand involuntarily drops, cracking the egg in the fry-pan. I reach over and turn off the gas. She looks at me, her expression pained. One drunken encounter and she’s already proprietary.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath. I shouldn’t ask but I have to know.
“Did I … ?” I choke on my own tongue.
She smiles. “With all your heart,” she rhapsodizes, actually closing her eyes. “You have the most sensual mouth. I can still feel it all over my …”
“Thank you.” I cut her off, turning away from her eager, treacly smile.
She misses the point.
“Oh God. I know exactly what you’re thinking.”
I turn back. No you don’t. Unless you’re a mind-reader. She is kind of dark; maybe she’s part-Indian, a spirit woman.
“I’m completely clean,” she swears hastily. “No AIDS, herpes, nothing like that.” She smiles, having cleared everything up. “I’d never do that to you, or any man.” She pauses. “I don’t get that many offers that I don’t (very softly now, almost a whisper) appreciate it.”
“You have to go. Now.”
“But … what about breakfast? Coffee? I could make you a jalapeno and jack omelet.” Spatula in one hand, Melitta pot in the other. I’m a lucky man; New Mexico’s answer to Julia Child is standing in my very own kitchen.
“There’s a McDonald’s two blocks down. They serve up a mean Egg McMuffin.” I’m back in the bedroom, scooping up her clothes, undergarments, shoes, purse. Dropping it all on the living room couch. “You’re out of here. Get your clothes on.”
She starts crying. Not a put-on like the numbers Holly used to run on me, this is real: big round tears, shuddering sobs. I grasp my head in my hands, hold on tightly.
“Hey, I’m sorry. Really. But I’ve got to get to work, I’m already late. Don’t you have a job you have to get to?”
“I’m on unemployment,” she sobs. The towel’s off her head, she’s buried her face in it, her hair hangs wet and stringy. “I’ve been laid off fourteen weeks.”
Very careful now. Sit her down on the couch. Take off the robe. Slide her panties up her legs, up over her ass. Slip the dress on. No chance with the bra and pantyhose, they go in her purse. Put her shoes on.
“Can I use your bathroom?” she asks weakly. “I don’t want to walk out of here looking like this.” She turns, looks straight at me. It’s unnerving. “Believe it or not, I do have my pride left,” she adds in an attempt at self-respect.
“Sure.” I’m discombobulated. “Take your time. I’ll make the coffee.”
“I knew you weren’t all that mean,” she says, sliding back into romance-novel coyness as she sashays into the bathroom. From behind, with her clothes on, she’s not that bad. I catch myself; I’m becoming a master of sublimation. You fucked up, man. Don’t compound it.
She comes out a few minutes later, having put on her bra and hose and makeup, brushed out her thick hair. Better; still no beauty, but I don’t have to flagellate myself all day: in a dark bar she’d have a certain low-down easy charm. She puts a folded piece of paper on the kitchen counter.
“My phone number,” she tells me. “In case you reconsider and feel like calling.
”
I nod. “Sure.” But don’t give up your day gig to wait by the phone, I’m thinking. Then I remember: she’s unemployed. She can baby-sit the phone all day if she’s of a mind to.
She starts to leave, quickly turns back catching me off-guard, kissing me full on the lips, open-mouthed, grinding up against me. She’s good at it; somehow I’m not surprised. I linger with it longer than I want to before I break it.
“Too bad you were so drunk,” she says, standing in the open doorway, “we were actually good together. A shame you don’t at least have a nice memory of it like I do.”
THEY HIT ME WITH the good news before I get to my first cup of coffee.
“Come on in the conference room. We’ve got to talk.” This is Andy Portillo, my other partner; from one of the old northern New Mexico land-grant families. Big, husky fellow, a couple years older than me, looks like a picker you see sitting on the tailgate of a ’52 Chevy half-ton eating burritos off the roach-coach. Looks, of course, can be deceiving: his plain dime-store black frame diplomas read Oberlin College and Columbia Law School, along with dozens of prestigious awards and honors. He’s our corporate guy, the back-room genius. Fred handles the civil stuff. I’m criminal law, a couple years back one of the heavyweight law journals came out with a survey of the best criminal lawyers in the country, state by state. I was one of a handful from New Mexico. When I get rolling in a courtroom I can be pretty impressive; some of my jury summations are local legends.
“You’re fucking up, Will,” Fred informs me without preamble.
“I know. But I can handle it.” The best defense is a good offense. “Come on guys, what is this shit, I haven’t even had my first cup of coffee.” I flash the famous Alexander rogue smile, the courtroom closer, the one people tell me reminds them of Jack Nicholson. It ought to; I copped it from watching him.
They’re not buying it; they’ve known me too long.
“Do you remember Mrs. Taliaferro?” Andy asks rhetorically. “Mrs. Ralph Taliaferro, that sweet little old lady from Pueblo who has this firm on a thirty-five-thousand-dollar yearly retainer just so we’ll be there in case she needs us?”
I groan. Susan comes in with my coffee. I scald my lips, spill some on the mahogany. She wipes it up, leaves as fast as she can: the thunderheads in the room are low and sinking.
“What time was the meeting?” I’m having a difficult time retaining these days, I’m burning gray cells by the thousands daily. I glance at the wall clock: 10:45.
“Eight-thirty,” Fred answers. “It’s been on your calendar for two weeks.” His hand drops to my shoulder. It’s not an altogether friendly gesture. “She flew in for a partners’ meeting, in her own private Lear. All the partners, and since it’s a criminal matter, her idiot son having gotten his tit caught in the wringer dealing to a DEA agent, she was especially interested in talking to our criminal law specialist. Unfortunately, he was indisposed.”
“I’ll talk to her. I’ll fly up this afternoon.” Hell, I’ll fuck her if I have to, I’m getting to be an old hand with the geriatric set.
Andy shakes his head. “She dropped us. Dixon’s firm called fifteen minutes ago. They’re sending a messenger over for her files.” He turns away, looking out the window at the statehouse across the street.
“I’ll fix it,” I promise him hastily. My gut’s churning. “Dixon’s a hack, she’s a smart lady even if she did mother a tribe of morons, she’ll smell him out in a week.”
The room is quiet. Fred snaps a pencil between his fingers. It sounds like a gunshot; despite the grim news I’m still fighting this hangover, I’m going to need a pot of coffee before lunch.
“Sit down, Will,” Fred commands. “Come on, man, we’ve got to talk,” he continues, softer. He looks drawn; they both do. We’re all close friends, we’ve been in practice together almost ten years, we were the coming firm that actually arrived.
“It’s gotten out of hand … I’m talking about your behavior.”
“I know what you’re talking about,” I tell him. I’m testy, I don’t like being lectured, especially when I deserve it.
“This isn’t the first time, Will,” Andy says. “Or the second. You’re out of control, man. You’re …” He hesitates. “You’re not doing yourself much good these days. Or anyone else.”
“Andy and I’ve talked about it,” Fred jumps in, a shade too quickly. “With the associates, too, they’re part of this, but ultimately it’s got to be our decision. The partners. The three of us.”
I drink half a cup. It helps.
“What exactly are we talking about?” I ask. I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
Andy sits next to me, leans in close. He’s a bear, this guy, a big warm bear, I love him, he’s the best friend I’ve ever had in my entire life.
“You’re no good to anybody right now, Will, especially yourself.”
“Hey I’m having some problems okay? It’s not the end of the world.”
“We want you to take a leave of absence,” he tells me out of left field.
I’ve been sucker-punched before; it always takes your breath away even when you should see it coming. I breathe deeply; I look at him, at Fred. Give them credit: they hold my look. It can’t be easy.
I finish the rest of my coffee in a swallow. “I can’t. Not now. You know I can’t now.” Then it hits me: my partners, my best friends, are kicking me out of my own firm. Alexander, Hite, and Portillo. It’s my goddam name that’s first on the door. I explode.
“What is this shit!” I yell. I’m up, pacing, getting the old courtroom adrenaline flowing. I always think better on my feet.
“Calm down Will,” Fred says. “You want the whole building to hear you?”
“Fuck the building,” I tell him, “and fuck you. Both of you.” I’m pacing, I’m sweating, I’m cooking, but I’m scared, too. “I’m going through the worst goddam time of my life right now, I’ve got a divorce settlement coming up with Holly that’s going to wipe out my assets, I’ve got a daughter who needs three grand worth of orthodontia, that’s the tip of the iceberg, there’s a million other important things on my mind, and you’re telling me because I miss one lousy meeting you want to kick me out. Thanks, guys. I need your support and instead you turn your back on me.”
I slump in a chair. Jane, the Michigan Law Review editor we hired as our latest associate last year right out from under the noses of two major Wall Street firms, sticks a quizzical head in the door. Andy waves her out impatiently. She jumps; that’s not at all like him. The entire office must be feeling the tension.
They turn to me. They are my friends, and they’re concerned. And I’m not helping them. I can’t. If I lose the firm I lose the only anchor I’ve got left.
Fred speaks first: we don’t call him ‘The Knife’ for nothing.
“You’re hurting the firm.” Simple, direct, and lethal.
“It’s out in the open,” Andy adds. “People are talking.”
“So let ’em. So what? I do the job don’t I?”
They don’t answer.
“Okay …” Carefully now, these are your friends, and partners, a lot’s at stake, don’t push them into something we’ll all regret later. “I’ve fucked up, maybe more than once, definitely more than once, but that’s behind me, on my word, I’m lining up my priorities, I’m going to take care of business. It’s going to be strictly business, I’m not drinking, I haven’t had a drink for a week (okay, one white lie, I’ll fix it retroactively) …”
“You were drinking last night,” Andy informs me coldly, catching me in my lie immediately. He leans away from me; not so much the big, friendly bear now. “You were drinking with Buck Burgess at the Longhorn during happy hour. Now cut the bullshit and get straight with us or I am personally going to throw you out this window.”
“That was beer, for Christsakes, one lousy beer.” I almost shit with relief; for a moment I thought I’d done real damage, somebody’d seen me in a forty-five-degree weave with the
lady from Truchas. “Okay, to be technical it was two beers but they were light beers,” I point out quickly, a lawyer’s mind is never at rest, “beer isn’t drinking. Hell,” I add, trying on a grin, “I get higher drinking iced tea.”
“Then you’d better add iced tea to your list of don’t-dos,” Fred says. “Look, Will,” he continues, “you’ve got a choice: take a leave and work out your problems …”
He pauses. Even for him, a guy who relishes a confrontation, this is painful. I don’t help; they’re going to have to play this hand out, I want them to show me what they’re holding.
Andy doesn’t blink. He’s a killer poker-player.
“We don’t want to buy you out, Will. But we will if we have to, if it’s the only way. But we don’t want to. For sure that’s not what we want to do.”
We have this clause in our original partnership language: if any two of the original three partners feel the third is harming the firm to the point where he’s causing irreparable damage they have the right to buy him out at current book value plus work in progress. It’s a lot of money; none of us ever wanted it before. Now it’s in front of us. We sit in putrefactive silence.
I blink first.
“For how long?”
Fred shrugs.
“A week? A month?” I ask.
Andy shakes his head. “A month won’t do it, Will.” He leans back towards me, the conciliator again. “It’s not just you, although,” he says diplomatically, albeit a shade too facilely, Andy’s not good at being slick, his bedrock honesty is his calling-card, “your well-being is the most important thing to us.”
“You’re talking about the integrity of the firm,” I finish for him.
They exhale; I’m not going to be a hard-case.
“’Cause that’s where the money is,” I continue. They’re wrong; I’m going to make it miserable for them. “Can you even afford to buy me out?”
“It’ll be a bitch,” Fred says. “But if we have to—if that’s what it comes to: yes.”
Against the Wind Page 1
