Somehow it seemed like this single event, so many years ago, wouldn’t have risen to the level to spark Benjamin’s request today. Additionally, the only reference to the victim had been “the young lady.” There would be no possible means for me to track the victim down today, even if there were some means for me to attempt to make amends for Benjamin’s role. Still, this was the most repentant note I had seen, so I set it aside. I wasn’t certain why, I just did.
By the time I finished the box I was working on, Katharine said that she had read everything Benjamin had provided about the Russell case, and she hadn’t found anything indicating that her dad had information concerning the identity of the killer. She did find notes that Benjamin hadn’t wanted to handle the defense of the civil suit but that Turner Kennedy had convinced him that he needed to for the good of the firm. Russell’s business ventures generated significant revenue for the firm, and there would be no doubt that if they declined to defend him in this matter, distasteful as it was, that they would lose all of his business. Benjamin’s notes indicated that he was motivated to negotiate the settlement as much to protect the firm from the negative publicity that he feared would arise from a protracted trial as to protect his client.
We worked on until lunch and then took a break. I was distracted thinking about the project when Katharine asked me what I would like for lunch, and I responded, “Whatever you would like.” She didn’t maintain that body eating ham and cheese sandwiches for lunch. We had a chopped salad.
After lunch, Katharine was complaining that she needed to make a couple of important calls but the cellular signal was too weak. I told her about the location I’d found in town with the strongest signal. She left, promising to return as quickly as possible to resume helping me. Being aware of the offerings of Vanderbilt, I couldn’t envision anything that would distract her. I resumed my search.
A couple of hours had passed when I came across the second reference to Shifty. It was an eerily similar entry in Benjamin’s personal notes. Another allegation of sexual assault that Benjamin managed to settle with the victim. Again, the box contained no related legal document. The absence of any portion of the legal documents was unlike any other portion of his memoirs. With all of the other notes, his personal narrative would have at least a small portion of the legal documents attached. Copies of court filings, court orders, or pages of transcript. It seemed as if Benjamin had included these documents as prompts to assist him in better recalling the persons and events he was writing about. In the two entries detailing his representation of Shifty, there were no accompanying documents. Nor was there any identification of the victim beyond “the young lady.” I stacked these pages with the others.
I went through a few more journal entries, but my mind kept drifting back to Shifty. I reread Benjamin’s notes on both of the incidents. While the notes contained no specific details of the alleged conduct, it was evident from the tone of the writings that Benjamin believed the events had taken place. It was also evident that he found his role in the matters very distasteful. Still, these events were decades old. Could Benjamin have regretted his role in these events enough to ask me to do something to rectify matters this many years later? And what could I possibly do? The notes contained no information from which I could identify the victim, or even Shifty for that matter. What could be done now?
I decided I needed a break and some fresh air. I went down to the kitchen and brewed a small pot of coffee, filled a mug, and, donning a jacket, went outside. The sky had darkened with rapidly moving water-laden clouds, and the air had the definite feel of another approaching storm. I decided not to stray too far from the lodge. I am a slow learner, but getting soaked twice had taught me something. I wandered down to the small cottage and back while sipping the hot coffee. I heard a vehicle approaching, and as I got back to the parking area in front of the lodge, Katharine drove in.
As Katharine stepped from the car, she said, “Aha, leave you alone, and you wander off.”
“Yeah, needed a little air. Looks like a storm coming, though.”
“From the weather on the radio, it sounds like a serious storm front moving this way.” She pointed toward the garage building. “Might be a good idea to put the cars away.”
We put both cars inside the garage, and I asked Katharine if she would like a cup of coffee. I refilled my mug, got one for her, and we sat down on the top step of the porch to watch the approaching weather. I asked Katharine if she had been successful in making her calls. She replied that she had been. She jokingly derided her dad’s resistance to installing equipment that would enhance the cell reception at the lodge. As we were finishing our coffee, the first drops of rain started to fall. I said, “Looks like my coffee break is over. Back to the grindstone.”
As we settled back into our respective seats in the study, Katharine asked, “Find anything interesting in my absence?”
I replied, “As a matter of fact, I may have. Did you ever hear you dad mention someone nicknamed Shifty?”
Katharine looked at me quizzically and shook her head. “No, not that I can recall. Why? What did you find?” She was studying me intently.
I tapped the small pile of pages I had set aside. “Not certain. Evidently, your dad negotiated a couple of settlements with women who alleged they had been sexually assaulted by this Shifty. I haven’t found any means to identify who the victims were or who Shifty was.”
“What could you do if you could identify the parties? When did these things take place?”
I nodded. “They’re decades old. Who knows if the parties are even still alive. It’s just the only thing I’ve found that Benjamin seemed to be really troubled by his participation. Everything else is just his lamenting a cross word he had for a clerk somewhere or kicking himself for failing to anticipate the actions of opposing counsel. Certainly not the kind of thing that would haunt him for the rest of his life.”
“But you think these would haunt him?” She held out her hand. “Can I take a look?”
Momentarily, I thought it might somehow be a violation of Benjamin’s trust but then realized that these documents were probably technically Katharine’s now anyway. They were Benjamin’s property, and I expected his entire estate to go to her. Besides, her opinion would be good. I handed her the small stack. “See what you think.”
A few minutes later, Katharine said, “I see what you mean, Jack. Dad did seem to find the entire matter very distasteful. I’m sure having a young daughter at home may have played into his mindset. Yet it was also obvious that in both instances he felt that he had done the woman a service by protecting her from the additional anguish of the matters becoming public, while at the same time obtaining a significant monetary settlement for her. Somehow, I don’t think these instances would have still bothered Dad all of these years later.” She paused and then added, “Maybe it was more a reflection of his recalling the events through the lens of today’s society’s sensitivity to events of this nature.”
I nodded in agreement. “You’re probably right.” We both went back to work sorting through document.
Suddenly a loud clap of thunder, as if Thor had beat his hammer against a metal shield directly above the lodge, jarred us both nearly out of our chairs. Katharine gasped, “Damn, that was close.”
“Startled the shit out of me,” was my shaky reply.
The lights flickered and went out. We both sat motionless for a few seconds. Finally, I clicked on the flashlight app on my phone and said, “Guess I better go out and start the generator.”
“You know how to start it?” was Katharine’s skeptical response.
“Sure. We have a generator at Cap’s Place. Besides, Andy showed me how the day I arrived.” I didn’t mention that Moe always started the generator at Cap’s Place, nor that when Andy did his little demo I was only half listening.
We made our way downstairs with the light of my phone. I was surprised by how dark it had gotten. Between the short days of autumn and the heavy
cloud cover, late afternoon appeared more like midnight. Another loud clap of thunder reverberated above us. Katharine said, “Why don’t you wait until the worst of this passes before you go out there. It’s crazy to go out there right now.”
“You’re probably right. I’ll get a fire going in the fireplace. Do you think you can find some candles? Our phones won’t last very long if we use them for lights.”
“Mom always made Dad keep a supply of glass hurricanes and candles for just these occasions. I’m sure there are some in the pantry.”
By the time I had a fire started, Katharine had candles burning in both the great room and the kitchen. The thunder rumbling in the distance seemed to indicate that the worst of the storm had moved away from us. I told Katharine that I was going to go out and start the generator. I wasn’t as concerned about the loss of lights as I was about the loss of the furnace. I was afraid it would get very cold in here by morning. Katharine went into the master suite and came back with a nylon rain suit that had belonged to her dad. I put it on over my clothes, donned the duck boots, and headed out into the rain.
It only took me a few minutes in the shed with the generator to wish I had paid closer attention to Andy’s instructions. The small flashlight as the only source of illumination in the pitch-black shed didn’t make the task any simpler. I finally figured out how to get the fuel turned on and cranked it over a few times. The starter was powered by a twelve-volt car battery, but it didn’t seem to be spinning the generator very fast. My guess was that the battery was weak. I knew that I needed to choke the air intake, Andy had explained that, I just had no idea how to do it. I thought back to my days mowing lawns as a kid. Recalling those experiences with the mower engine, I located the choke. Unfortunately, locating the choke and properly utilizing it are two separate and distinct actions. After several more unsuccessful efforts at starting the generator, the strong odor of gasoline told me that I had flooded the carburetor. I knew that if I kept cranking the engine in an effort to clear the carburetor, I would likely run the battery down. I accepted my defeat, at least momentarily, and returned to the lodge.
As I came in the door, Katharine had just finished putting another log on the fire. She turned and, pointing toward the dwindling pile of firewood, said, “I take it you didn’t get the generator started. I remember it can be sorta finicky. If the fireplace is going to be our only source of heat tonight, I suggest you bring some more wood in from the shed before you take off your rain suit.”
Split firewood was stored in a lean-to shed at one end of the lodge. I carried several armloads inside and stacked them near the hearth. The rain had let up some during my mission, but just as I finished peeling off the rain suit, a loud clap of thunder announced another torrential downpour. Several successive flashes of lightning illuminated the inside of the lodge momentarily. Katharine called from the kitchen, “Sounds like the storm’s back.”
I wandered into the kitchen and found it fairly well illuminated by candles in hurricane chimneys. Katharine was in the process of frying chicken on the gas stove. She looked up at me and smiled. “Glad you got back inside in time. Wouldn’t have wanted to see you get caught out there. Sounds like the rain is really coming down again.”
I gestured around the kitchen. “Quite the dinner you’ve got going here.”
“Got to take care of the man who was out there braving the storm.” With that, she took two steps toward me and kissed me on the cheek before adding, “You can help if you would like? That pot of boiled potatoes needs mashing.”
I was stunned for a few seconds. It was as if I’d entered a time warp and emerged a decade earlier. The warm smile, the banter, the peck on the cheek. These were elements of a time long past. At least, I thought it was long past. I replied, “Sure. I know how to mash potatoes.”
As we finished cooking dinner together, sipping the Chardonnay that Katharine had opened, the storm raged outside. Large cold raindrops, bordering on hail, relentlessly pelted the metal roof and the windows. Katharine told me that the weather seemed to call for a good old fashioned home-cooked meal. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, string beans, and a tossed salad certainly seemed to meet that definition. It also made up for the chopped salad lunch. Her newfound interest, and skills, in the culinary arts continued to surprise me.
We ate at the table in the great room. The light produced by the candles and the fireplace seemed to evaporate into the dark recess of the high ceiling. It was as if we were eating in a warm bubble surrounded by the great unknown. As if there were no other people in this little world of ours. By the time we had finished dinner and stacked the dishes in the sink — there was no running water without electricity to run the well pump — we had finished the bottle of wine.
As we returned to the great room, Katharine suggested that we open a bottle of port. She found a bottle in the liquor cabinet and brought it and two glasses over to the couch while I stoked the fire. I sat down at the end of the couch, and Katharine sat down right next to me. As she pulled her legs up underneath her, one knee came to rest on my thigh. She made no effort to move it. Handing me one of the glasses of port, she raised her glass and said, “Cheers.” The flickering light of the fireplace was dancing in her eyes.
Katharine again started to talk about her dad. This time, stories about her early childhood. Stories illuminating the special relationship she had with him when she was young. How she idolized him. How she now regretted the fact that the competing interests of her teenage years had somehow caused her to drift away from him. These were stories and reflections she had never before shared with me, and for once in my life, I knew enough to just listen. She wasn’t looking for counsel. She wasn’t looking for dialog. All she really wanted — needed — was for someone to listen.
While we were reasonably warm and cozy inside, the storm continued to rage outside. At one point, an especially loud crack of thunder so startled Katharine that she lurched into me, threw her arms around my neck, and screamed, “Geez!” She had her head nestled against my neck as she held me tightly. Suddenly, she withdrew as if she had only then realized what she had done. “Gosh, Jack. Sorry. That one just startled me.”
Once again, the feelings I had were strange, but familiar. Although, the familiarity was becoming the predominant feeling. Yes, this was all starting to feel very familiar. Very comfortable. I was again seeing the woman I had fallen in love with all of those years ago. The warm, funny, loving woman. I gazed back into her eyes and said, “No problem. In fact, truth be told, I kinda enjoyed it.”
Katharine smiled, took a sip of her port, and said, “I’ve been doing all of the talking. How about you tell me more about this new life you’ve created in Florida? There must be some real attraction down there if you’re not even considering practicing law again.”
A few days ago I wouldn’t have shared the details of my life with her, but now it just felt right. It felt like it does when you’re first getting to know someone new. Telling your life story. In this case, I needn’t go back further in history than my arrival in Florida. She was intimately familiar with the chapters preceding Florida. I told the story in chronological order, beginning with me staying with Uncle Mickey above Cap’s Place. I was candid about what a mess I was when I first arrived and how diligently I attempted to drain South Florida of all bottled beer. Katharine listened intently but with an unmistakable look of sadness. I lightened the mood by talking about all of the lessons of the bar business I learned the hard way. All of the mistakes I made before realizing Marge and Moe were much better at running the place than I ever would be.
Katharine interrupted me, saying, “Jack, there is no doubt in my mind that you could run the place as well as anyone in the world.” Her expression turned serious, as she continued, “The bar business probably just doesn’t really interest you that much. Oh, it’s the way you support yourself, but it just doesn’t inspire you. It’s just the situation you find yourself in these days. Doesn’t mean that’s what you’ll
be doing tomorrow.”
I reflected on her words and the fact that with the problems of rebuilding, and a very lucrative offer on the table, another major change in my life might be on the horizon. Of course, I was totally clueless about what any future, not involving Cap’s Place, would look like. She must have read indecision on my face because Katharine said, “I think you should return to the practice of law, Jack. You were very happy when you were in the prosecutor’s office. Maybe private practice wasn’t as inspiring to you, but you really were energized when you were in the prosecutor’s office.” She reached over and patted the back of my hand. “I think it’s the boy scout in you. You really like to help people — to protect people. Especially those who can’t protect themselves.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. I really haven’t given it much thought.” I changed the subject by saying, “Looks like I better throw a couple more logs on the fire. From the sounds of that storm, I don’t think the power will be back on tonight, and to be perfectly honest, I don’t relish the idea of going back out there again to attempt to start the generator.”
Loyal Be Jack Page 10
