EIGHT
Corbin received a pleasant surprise in the afternoon mail—payment of a fee he’d billed six months earlier and given up hope of collecting. He held the check up in the air triumphantly as he approached Janelle’s desk.
“Look what dropped down from heaven,” he said with a smile. “Jarvis Kemp paid the $2,500 he owed me for representing him in a condemnation case.”
“If you’d taken it on a contingency, you’d have been paid three times that much,” Janelle sniffed.
“And he would have hired someone else to represent him. Jarvis may not have gone to school past the sixth grade, but he knew all he needed was a lawyer willing to pull together a higher appraisal and then rattle a sword in front of the Simpkin firm. Even if we’d gone to trial, I think the chances of getting him more money for that piece of hardscrabble land would have been less than 50 percent. If the moon had red clay it would look like Kemp’s property.”
“Do you want me to deposit the check today?”
“Yes, even though I’m sure it won’t bounce.”
Because Corbin owned the little building, his overhead costs were ridiculously low, and he’d been able to survive even though his practice sputtered much of the time. Janelle hadn’t received a raise in five years and had long since quit dropping hints. Corbin figured she knew she’d have to work harder and learn new technology if she abandoned him for another job. So he put up with her surly attitude, and she accepted a noncompetitive salary.
Thirty minutes later she brought the Bowater file into his office and placed it on his desk with the completed dictation on top. “Somebody needs to help that couple,” she said. “That place sounds awful.”
“It is. Would you swing by and take some pictures on your way back from the bank? I’ll let them know you’re coming.”
Janelle stared at him for a moment, then shook her head. “That’s not funny.”
“Maybe not,” Corbin admitted. “But I’m going to have to hire someone to take a look at the problems and estimate the cost of repair.”
“How about my nephew Stanley?” Janelle asked, brightening. “He’s been doing remodeling work for quite a while.”
Corbin vaguely remembered Stanley as a clean-cut young man who might be able to express himself decently in court if the case ended up in front of a judge.
“Yeah, he’ll do. Give him a call and coordinate a time with the clients.”
Corbin picked up some papers and began to read them. Janelle didn’t move.
“What else?” he asked.
“What are you going to pay Stanley to be your expert witness?”
“Oh, he’s an expert witness now?”
“It looks that way to me.”
Corbin was irritated, but he liked Janelle’s suggestion. “Less than I would if he had a degree in structural engineering from Georgia Tech, and more than if all he knew was how to frame up a house that somebody else laid out.”
“And how much is that? I don’t want to get him involved and then end up being embarrassed when—”
“Twenty-five dollars an hour,” Corbin replied as he felt his face get red. “With a maximum fee that I’ll set once I figure out how hard Dickens is going to fight. And in case you forgot, you write the checks around here. He’ll get paid.”
“That’s fair,” Janelle said as she retreated in victory toward the door. “I’ll call Stanley this evening and get him over there within the next day or so.”
“With a camera. And he has to buy his own film.”
“Nobody uses a film camera.”
“You know what I mean. He needs to print out photos I can use in court.” Corbin dismissed her with a wave of his hand.
A headache that had danced around the edge of his brain before lunch crept back. He rubbed his forehead as he made a few small changes in a letter with a red pen.
“Do this as quick as you can,” he said, taking it to Janelle. “I want to sign it and go home.”
By the time Janelle brought back the letter, Corbin’s headache had moved from the fringes and become a throbbing drumbeat that would only get louder if ignored. He signed the revised letter without reading it and left the office.
Several times during the drive home the road twisted to the west, causing Corbin to squeeze his eyes shut for a few seconds to avoid the harshness of the setting sun. Once, the sound of a horn from an approaching car forced him to open his eyes and swerve to the right. He made it home and pulled a bottle of bourbon from a cupboard in the kitchen. Pouring the clear brown liquid into a tumbler, he sat at the kitchen table and downed it in two swallows. That drink was quickly followed by others. He fell asleep on the couch in the living room, and when he groggily opened his eyes at 3:30 a.m., he was still wearing his clothes. He stumbled into the bedroom, put on pajamas, and fell into bed.
Roxy left her townhome at 5:50 the next morning and locked the front door. She slipped the house key into a tiny pocket in the front of her running shorts, then performed a few stretching exercises while holding on to an ornate cast-iron fence that extended the entire length of her block. She loved the cool feel and texture of the black fence, which was decorated with black magnolia flowers and replicas of the tree’s large, broad leaves. Limber as a gymnast, she switched positions and rested her right leg against the railing and touched her knee with her forehead.
The fence wasn’t old, but in Roxy’s mind it captured the essence of the antebellum South when Atlanta was a railroad terminus for steam engines carrying women wearing hoop dresses and fancy petticoats. Roxy’s ancestors weren’t wealthy landowners. Her father’s forebears were farmers and blacksmiths, and her mother’s family were middle-class French shopkeepers who immigrated to America in the 1880s.
Roxy ran at a slow pace down the sidewalk. Piedmont Park opened its gates at six, and she liked to time her arrival precisely at the time the park opened for the day. During the warm-up portion of her run, Roxy took in all the details of her surroundings. Each season had its unique sights and fragrances. With the arrival of early fall, every breath of cool air was refreshment to her lungs.
She reached the park and headed to one of the large open fields. On Saturdays and Sundays the area would be crowded with people, but this early in the morning she only shared the space with fellow joggers and a few people walking their dogs.
Roxy reached the field and quickly accelerated. Her feet flew across the wet grass, leaving nothing but tiny marks in the dew. She pushed hard all the way to the end of the field, then slowed down and ran in a horizontal direction for a couple hundred yards. This was followed by another sprint of several hundred yards. Called interval training, the alteration of sprinting with short rest breaks was designed to increase her overall speed during long runs. She enjoyed ramping up her heart rate, letting it drop, then ratcheting it up again. The high caused by the massive release of endorphins was as addicting as a bag of caramels. Only when her muscles cried out in fatigue and her breathing became labored did she turn toward home.
It was 7:10 when she reached the iron railing in front of her townhome and repeated her stretching exercises. Inside the house she grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator. Her phone, which was on the small table in the kitchen where she ate her meals, vibrated, and Mr. Caldweller’s name popped up.
Corbin took a stiff drink of bourbon as soon as he woke up, then stayed in the shower for a long time. Still bleary-eyed from the previous night, he stopped for breakfast on his way to the office. The twenty-four-hour restaurant no longer allowed smoking, but the cook produced enough overdone toast to give the air a burnt smell. Corbin chased his earlier whiskey with a cup of black coffee while he waited for a plate of sunny-side-up eggs, hashed brown potatoes, and dry wheat toast. He ignored the bustling activity in the restaurant as he read the morning news on his phone and waited for his food.
“Can I join you?” a male voice asked.
Corbin looked up. It was Max Hogan, the bald-headed owner of a payday loan business and paw
nshop next door to a tattoo parlor. Max’s arms were a living canvas.
“Sure.” Corbin gestured for Max to sit down. “I haven’t seen you for weeks. How have you been?”
Max got the attention of a waitress and ordered a cup of coffee before answering. “Sober,” he replied.
“What?” Corbin asked.
“No more liquor for me,” Max answered. “I completed a twenty-eight-day alcohol rehab program at a facility in Gainesville a couple of weeks ago, and I’m going to a group that meets at Hopewell Methodist Church.”
“Oh,” Corbin replied. He braced himself for what he knew would follow.
“Yeah, I’m going to at least one meeting every day, sometimes two,” Max said. He smiled. “Corbin, you look like I just told you I had lung cancer and was on my way to the hospital for a last-ditch dose of chemotherapy.”
“Max, I’m not an everyday drinker,” Corbin began. “And I’ve only been on one binge in the past few weeks.”
Corbin stopped. He’d passed out the night before and needed a drink to kick-start his day, but that didn’t qualify as a binge unless he kept drinking throughout the day.
“No need to go there,” Max replied. “I’ve said the same thing many times, and I know exactly how you feel and what you’re thinking. It’s not an accident I’m here this morning. I saw your truck in the parking lot and pulled in. You’re one of the first guys I wanted to track down as soon as I felt strong enough.”
For over twenty years Corbin and Max had shot pool, watched sports on TV in smoky bars, and laughed at bad jokes made funny by booze. This was the first time Corbin could remember Max trying to stop drinking. He wouldn’t have tolerated most folks who invaded his personal space at 8:00 a.m. to preach sobriety, but Max was different. They had a long history.
“I understand,” Corbin replied. “And I’m happy for you if that’s what you want. But don’t try to twist my arm. I’ve been tapering back since Kitty got sick.”
“That’s the other reason I stopped to see you,” Max said. “I wanted to tell you how sorry I am that she passed. I know how much you cared about her.”
In moments made vulnerable by booze-induced candor, Corbin had poured out his heart to Max about his marriage. He couldn’t deny what he’d said then was true.
“Yeah.”
Max patted his multicolored forearm. “And if I wanted to twist your arm, I could jerk it clean off with this.”
“Don’t get cocky,” Corbin said as he tightened his right bicep and tapped it with his finger. “I have bullets left in my guns.”
Max grinned. “We talk tough for a pair of old guys.”
The waitress arrived with Corbin’s food. Max didn’t order anything, but accepted Corbin’s offer of a piece of toast. He asked a few questions about the funeral, then checked his watch.
“I’d better get going.”
Corbin swallowed a bite of eggs mixed with hash browns. “One last thing,” he said slowly. “Why did you enter the twenty-eight-day program? What happened?”
“Family intervention,” Max replied. “My brother and his wife came in from Albuquerque, and my kids piled into town. There were fifteen people sitting in my living room when I got home from work one Friday night. They had everything set up at the treatment facility. They cried, I cried. It was just like you see in reality TV shows.”
“Okay.”
Max stood up. “Are we still friends? Or does the only thing connecting us come from inside a bottle?”
“Is that something they taught you in rehab to say to your old drinking buddies?” Corbin asked aggressively.
“Would it make a difference? I’m the one standing here.”
Corbin paused for a moment. “No. We’re still friends.”
“Thanks.” Max reached out and touched Corbin on the shoulder. “And no, they didn’t teach me that in rehab. They warned me to stay away from guys like you for at least six months.”
NINE
Ray returned to the house after walking Billy to the bus stop and poured a second cup of coffee.
“You didn’t wait with him?” Cindy asked when she came into the kitchen.
“He didn’t want me to. He reminded me he’s in the third grade.”
“And one of the youngest boys in his class,” Cindy answered. “Was Sammy Baldwin at the bus stop? He’s been picking on Billy recently during the ride home from school.”
“Yes, and the last thing I did was to make Billy let Sammy out of a headlock. From what I saw, you may be getting a call from Josie Baldwin complaining about our son. Billy may not turn nine for another month, but he’s a big, strong kid.”
“Your dad plays rough with him. I don’t like it when they wrestle. That’s probably where Billy learned how to put someone in a headlock.”
Ray didn’t respond. Trying to defend Corbin, even if the charges weren’t justified, was a case he had no chance of winning in front of Cindy, who had been in an unusually negative mood for several days.
“I saw him in court yesterday,” Ray said.
“How did he look?”
“Decent. He’d shaved and probably taken a shower. And his mind was sharp enough that he gave me a hard time about the way I handled an environmental case against Colfax.”
“Why would he care about that?”
“He believes what Colonel Parker told him about contingency lawyers being the champion of the common man. Going after something big, whether it’s an insurance company, a corporation, the government, or a cheapskate landlord, is in his blood as much as the booze.”
“Well, all of those are things I’m thankful you didn’t inherit from him,” Cindy sniffed. “And I don’t think that’s being disrespectful. Colfax gave my father a great job, and we wouldn’t have a nice place to visit in Brunswick if he hadn’t been paid well enough to retire on the coast.”
She closed the door of the dishwasher and pushed Start, then turned around. “What’s your day like today?”
“A bunch of office stuff. Nate Stamper handled the case for Colfax yesterday. He was upset because Judge Ellington didn’t go along with the deal we’d worked out before the hearing, so I may see if he’s available to grab a bite to eat.” Ray paused. “And find out where they are on putting together a job offer.”
“If Steve finds out you’re meeting Nate for lunch, will that make him suspicious?”
“It might,” Ray admitted. “But the more I think about it, the more I want to make the move to the Simpkin firm. If I stay at the DA’s office, we’ll never take a vacation at the beach unless it’s with your folks. And I read an article the other day about the cost of a college education in ten years. It will be crazy expensive if Billy goes to a private school.”
“What about a bigger house for us?” Cindy asked, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Two bedrooms isn’t enough.”
Ray looked at her, startled. “What do you mean?”
His wife had grown up in a frugal family and was an expert coupon clipper. New house fever was a surprising new ailment.
Cindy smiled shyly. “You didn’t ask me what I’m going to do today.”
“Uh, go house hunting?”
“Not yet.” She shook her head. “I’m going to the doctor first.”
Ray looked alarmed, then the expression on his face changed. “You’re not—?”
“I am,” Cindy interrupted, beaming. “I took a home test while you were walking Billy to the bus stop, and it was positive!”
Cindy almost jumped into Ray’s arms, and he held her close.
“That’s great, honey,” he said, “but don’t you think we need to manage our expectations until—”
“No!” She pushed him away fiercely. “I’m not going to allow fear to ruin this for me! It’s been six years since we lost the last baby, and I’d almost given up hope for another.”
“All right then!” Ray said, holding up his hands. “I’m glad too.”
“We’re going to pray and believe,” Cindy replied with dete
rmination. “And if it’s a girl we’re going to name her Kitty!”
Roxy placed the water bottle on the table as she continued to hold the cell phone to her ear.
“You’re sending me to Chicago?”
“That’s right. I’ve been up most of the night with the worst pain I’ve ever felt. I saw an ENT doc at the hospital a couple of hours ago, and she says there’s no way I should get on a plane. Both ears are infected, but it’s worse on the right. If I wasn’t on strong pain meds, I wouldn’t be able to talk to you now, so don’t waste my time.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Christine transcribed my notes from yesterday’s meeting and will send them to your phone. She’ll e-mail your ticket information. The flight leaves at 9:45. The meeting with Dr. Sellers begins at noon.”
Roxy glanced at the clock. It was a thirty-minute ride from the nearest MARTA station to the airport. Whether she could make the flight would depend on how fast she could get through security and navigate the massive concourses to the correct gate.
“Will Christine let Dr. Sellers know I’m going to meet with him?”
Mr. Caldweller didn’t answer. Roxy glanced down at her phone. Either the call dropped or her boss had ended it. She didn’t call him back. If Mr. Caldweller wanted to reach her, he would. Her next step was clear.
She had to get ready to leave for the airport a lot faster than she’d sprinted across the grassy field at Piedmont Park.
Corbin unlocked the door of the office. Janelle wasn’t there, and he checked the answering machine. Mr. and Mrs. Bowater wanted him to call them ASAP.
“This is Corbin Gage,” he said when Mr. Bowater answered the phone. “I faxed a claim under the lease and for your personal injuries to Mr. Dickens yesterday afternoon.”
“We know,” Mr. Bowater replied in his country twang. “He came by while we were eating supper and told us if we filed a lawsuit against him he’d make sure no one in Rusk County would rent a place to us.”
A House Divided Page 6
