He opened the door of the truck.
The following morning Corbin sleepily turned off the alarm clock. On the nightstand beside the clock was a copy of The Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous, cowritten in the 1930s by Bill Wilson, one of the founders. Corbin stayed up late flipping through the book to get an overview of the program and how it worked. He slowed down to read a few personal stories about men who’d battled serious alcohol addictions.
The cut on his face was beginning to itch, and he let warm water run over it to ease the discomfort while taking his shower. He gently patted it dry and reapplied a bandage. The cut didn’t really need to be covered, but the black stitches stuck out at odd angles and would attract more unwanted stares than a white cover. He brewed a pot of strong coffee and took two painkillers. He’d not drunk any alcohol when he got home from the AA meeting and needed medication to combat the aggressive headache that began before he left for the office. He toasted a bagel and spread cream cheese on top of it for breakfast. He glanced longingly at the liquor cabinet in the corner of the kitchen, but instead of pouring a shot into his coffee, he chewed the bagel as a form of sensory distraction.
As he shut the door to leave for the office, Corbin remembered that he’d not replaced the liquor bottle he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk. He let his hand rest on the doorknob as he debated whether to go back inside and get one. He even visualized which one he’d take, a twelve-year-old Tennessee bourbon with a black label. His feelings brought him face-to-face with the first of the Twelve Steps—the admission that he was powerless over alcohol and his life had become unmanageable.
When he’d heard the step read by the woman who led the meeting, Corbin had relaxed. The definition indicated a degree of domination by alcohol that didn’t describe his life. But now in the light of a new day, the first step seemed uncomfortably relevant. If he went inside the house and grabbed a bottle for the office, it would be an admission of the power of alcohol over his life. He abruptly turned away.
Corbin was in a foul mood. The medication had dulled his headache, but it still lurked at the edge of his consciousness. Janelle hadn’t arrived yet and he mumbled and grumbled as he brewed another pot of coffee. Going into his office, he pulled open the bottom drawer and stared at the empty space. Irritation at Cindy rose up inside him. Just because his daughter-in-law came from a conservative, religious family steeped in a judgmental outlook was no reason for her to arbitrarily control Corbin’s relationship with Billy.
Thinking about Cindy’s father, Corbin remembered that he’d retired from Colfax. Shuffling through his notes and research, Corbin tried to channel his negative energy into his lawsuit against the company. An hour later Janelle buzzed him.
“Good morning,” she said when he answered.
“What’s good about it?” Corbin replied gruffly.
“Sorry to disturb the bear in his den,” Janelle snipped. “Tommy Kilpatrick is on the phone. Do you want to talk to him?”
“Yeah, put him through.” Corbin turned to a blank sheet of paper in a legal pad.
“I talked to my friend at the plant,” Tommy said. “He has several material safety data sheets, including one for a chemical that he’s sure was included in the material dumped on the ground near my property.”
“Do you have the sheets?”
“Yes. It’s a bunch of stuff with long names I can’t pronounce. When I worked there all I did was meet my production quota. I didn’t try to understand the technical stuff, but my friend says they’re developing a product designed to fertilize crops and kill weeds at the same time. When he mentioned it, I remembered it being discussed at a meeting before I was laid off.”
“A fertilizer and an herbicide,” Corbin said.
“Yeah, one of the bosses said it would cost less than the two products sold separately and could be applied by a farmer in one application, which would save a bunch of time and fuel expense. Carl—oh, don’t write down his name, okay?”
Too late. Corbin immediately made a note. He could always subpoena Carl without revealing why he’d selected him.
“Go ahead,” Corbin said.
“My buddy is going to see if he can find out anything else and let me know. Carl is a low-level guy in research and development; he hauls the drums around for the chemists who create the formulas. That’s why he knows a little bit about what’s going on. He coached Mitchell’s T-ball team last summer.”
Corbin thought for a moment. “Until the final mix is set, are there runs of product that can’t be marketed?”
“Sure, and that stuff has to be thrown away. Also there is by-product from normal manufacturing that is waste material. I have no idea what’s in that. Some of it gets trucked out, and I’m not sure where it ends up.”
“Would Carl know about that?”
“I doubt it.”
“Okay, how soon can you get me the material safety data sheets?”
“This morning. I have to come to town for a job interview. I’m trying to get on as a supervisor at the chicken plant.”
Corbin cringed. Even supervisors at the chicken plant didn’t earn enough to support a family.
“I’ve got to latch on with a company big enough to accept Mitchell on their health insurance,” Tommy continued. “That cuts down on my choices.”
“I understand. I’ll be here.”
The call ended and Corbin took two more painkillers. The bottle warned that the maximum dosage in twenty-four hours was eight capsules. At his current rate Corbin would swallow sixteen pills by the end of the workday. He massaged his temples with his fingertips as he turned toward his computer. Pulling up what he hoped was the correct phone number for the branch of the attorney general’s office in charge of criminal prosecutions for environmental offenses, he squinted to better focus as he punched in the number.
TWENTY
Will I have to file a request under the Open Records Act to examine the file?” Corbin asked the paralegal he finally reached after wading through three lower levels of administrative barriers.
“Not if you are willing to come to Atlanta and examine it at our office.”
“Can I make copies of anything I think relevant to my investigation?”
“For a fee. We’ll have to make the copies. A clerk can assist you.”
It was less red tape than Corbin had anticipated.
“Okay,” he said. “I’d like to set up a time to come later this week if that’s possible.”
“Just a minute.”
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Corbin began to fidget.
“What is your name again?” the woman asked when she returned.
“Corbin Gage. I’m a lawyer in Alto.”
“Are you Raymond Gage?”
“No, that’s my son. He’s the assistant DA who handled the case here in Rusk County.”
“Why don’t you get what you need from him?”
Corbin didn’t want to say that his son was angling for a job and didn’t want to upset the law firm representing the defendant.
“Uh, he sent the entire file back to you.”
“Okay. Since I talked with you, I’d like to be here when you come. That will make things smoother.”
“I appreciate that.” Corbin relaxed. “How about Thursday afternoon?”
“No, Friday afternoon is better for me.”
“What about next Monday?”
“I’m out of the office all next week.”
Corbin didn’t want to face Friday afternoon traffic in Atlanta, but there seemed to be no other option. “Then Friday it is.”
“Come to the waiting area on the third floor of the judicial building around four o’clock and ask for Melissa Thompson.”
“See you then.”
The call ended and Corbin got up to stretch. He went out to the reception area to tell Janelle about the appointment in Atlanta, but she wasn’t there. Her computer was dark, and her desk didn’t show any signs of recent activity. Corbin suddenly
wondered if she’d quit without notice. He opened the middle drawer of her desk. All it contained were paper clips and pens. The two side drawers of the desk were locked.
Corbin walked tentatively into the rear of the office. The secretary wasn’t in the break room or the storage room where they kept supplies. The bathroom door was open and the light turned off. He opened the door at the rear of the office. Janelle’s car was gone.
Corbin stormed back into the office. He was on the verge of filing one of the biggest lawsuits of his career and didn’t have time to hire a new secretary. Finding and training a replacement would be a huge hassle. His headache forced its way to a spot behind both of his eyes with such pressure that it made him nauseous.
He rested his hand on Janelle’s desk, then checked his watch. Red’s opened in ten minutes, and Corbin would be the first customer in the door. He desperately needed a cool glass of mountain water. He imagined the first searing drink of moonshine and shut his eyes in an effort to drive back the pain of the headache.
A voice interrupted his dark fantasy.
“Are you okay?” Janelle put her purse on her desk.
“Where have you been?” Corbin exploded.
“The office supply store,” she replied, her eyes opening wide. “We were almost out of paper for the copy machine, and there were a few other things I needed.”
Corbin shook his head and pushed back his hair with his hand. “I thought you’d quit,” he mumbled.
“Quit? Why did you think that?”
“You weren’t at your desk.” Corbin motioned with his hand. “And you didn’t tell me you were leaving on an errand.”
“And you were in such a bad mood this morning you thought I couldn’t stand working here another day and walked out without notice?”
“No. Uh, yes.”
“Sit down,” Janelle commanded, eyeing him. “You look terrible. You’re not having chest pains, are you?”
“Just a splitting headache.”
Janelle reached for her purse. “I have some pretty strong stuff in here. Two of them usually knock out—”
“I’ve tried that already,” Corbin replied, taking a deep breath in an effort to regain control. “And thanks for not quitting.”
“You’re welcome. Unless you do something crazy, I’ll give you at least two weeks’ notice.”
Corbin turned back toward his office. Before he reached it, the front door opened and Tommy Kilpatrick entered. Corbin gathered himself in an effort to look normal.
“How’s the eye, Mr. Gage?” Tommy asked.
“Getting better every day. But I’ve got a terrible headache.”
“A knock on the head can do that. I got a concussion when I was playing football in high school. It’s no joke.”
Corbin didn’t want to compare headaches. “Do you have the MSD sheets?” he asked.
Tommy handed him a thin stack of the labels that had been affixed to containers of chemicals.
“The one my buddy believes was part of the stuff dumped on the ground has a Post-it sticker on it.”
Corbin saw the yellow slip peeking out to the side.
“I’ll look them over. I’m going to the attorney general’s office in Atlanta on Friday to inspect the file that formed the basis of the criminal prosecution. I’m sure the state hazardous material inspectors went inside the plant and compiled a list of chemicals.”
“Okay. I’m on my way to the chicken plant for my job interview.”
“Good luck,” Corbin said with a forced smile.
Tommy left and Corbin handed the MSD sheets to Janelle.
“Make copies of these for the file. I don’t want to sort through a bunch of sticky labels.”
“Will do. Are you sure you don’t want some of my meds?”
“I’m sure.”
As soon as the clock signaled 11:00 a.m., Corbin was out the door of the office and walking rapidly down the street to Red’s. The restaurant closed between the breakfast and lunch shifts and reopened an hour before noon. Corbin was the first customer for the midday meal.
“Hungry?” Red asked.
“And thirsty,” Corbin said, looking past the owner toward the kitchen.
“Uh-oh,” Red replied, lowering his voice. “I was supposed to get a fresh shipment this morning, but Beanpole didn’t show up. I called his house, and his wife said he was in the middle of a big run and couldn’t get away to make the delivery.”
“Don’t you have any left over from yesterday?” Corbin asked, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.
“No, we sold it out the back door to a customer who was having a big party on the lake last night. Sorry, but I’m cleaned out.”
Corbin wanted to swear at Red, but the sincerity on the restaurant owner’s face stopped him. “All right.” Corbin sighed. “I guess I’ll eat.”
“The usual?” Red asked. “I can put in the order for you.”
“Yeah, but light on the onions. I’ve got a horrible headache, and my stomach is shaky.”
Corbin slipped into a booth, leaned his head against the cool vinyl, and closed his eyes. He couldn’t understand why his brief ride on the alcohol abstinence wagon was so rough.
“Here you go,” a voice said.
Corbin opened his eyes to see Red setting down a steaming hot bowl of beans and rice. Beside the bowl was a plastic glass half full of clear liquid.
“What’s this?” Corbin asked, his hopes rising.
“Not what you wanted, but I think you’ll find it to your liking.”
Corbin picked up the glass and sniffed the contents. It was odorless. He took a sip. “Vodka?”
“Yep. If you’d prefer it mixed with orange juice, I’ve got some in the fridge.”
While Red spoke, Corbin took two more sips. The clear liquor had a bite, but it was more like a nip from a miniature poodle than the German shepherd–size chomp delivered by brew from moonshiners like Beanpole.
“No,” Corbin said as he let himself begin to relax. “This’ll do.”
By the end of the meal, the glass and Corbin’s bowl of beans were both empty. His headache retreated from the entrenched position it had taken up behind his eyes, but it remained crouched at the edge of his brain. He took his ticket to the cash register and handed Red a twenty.
“I didn’t see my special beverage on the tab,” he said, “but I hope this will take care of it.”
Red took the money and gave Corbin change based on the cost of the beans and rice only.
“I said to keep it,” Corbin insisted.
“No.” Red shook his head. “It’s on me. I could tell how much you needed a shot. Has it been a rough morning?”
It took Corbin a couple of seconds to remember what he’d done before leaving for the restaurant. “Uh, no. I mean, no fires to put out at the office. I just—”
Corbin stopped. The only explanation that came to mind was from the first step of AA—he couldn’t resist the pull of alcohol. The need for a drink had compelled him down the street like a man dragged behind a horse, and his will was powerless to stop it.
Corbin bolted from the restaurant.
Occasionally Roxy and Peter would meet for lunch. Arranging their schedules to accommodate a midday meal was a logistical challenge, but Peter was persistent. Roxy arrived early at the French-themed eatery that served some of the most delicate yet flavorful sauces in the city. A waiter passed by with a veal dish swimming in what Roxy guessed was a sauce velouté. She followed the waiter with her nose.
“Don’t overwork your olfactory receptors,” a voice said.
She turned to smile at Peter. “I bring every part of me to this place,” she said.
Peter leaned over and kissed her.
“Thanks for driving the extra distance to meet me here,” Roxy said.
The maître d’ seated them at a table for two in a secluded corner at the rear of the restaurant. There were fresh flowers in the middle of the table.
“I wish I could call in sick for the
rest of the afternoon and stay right here.” Roxy sighed and took a sip of glacier water.
“Rough day?”
“Mr. Caldweller dumped responsibility for a big case in my lap, and it’s going to take the rest of the week before I see the bottom of my to-do list.”
The waiter took their order. Roxy ordered the veal dish that caught her attention earlier. Peter selected the quiche of the day.
“Is your father getting over his injury?” he asked after the waiter left.
“I guess so. I’ve not talked to him again. But a bigger blow is coming when Ray and his wife restrict his access to my nephew, Billy.”
“Because of your father’s drinking?”
“And the fallout caused by it. It’s a shame in a way, because Billy is the only person who brings him any happiness. But actions have consequences. Isn’t that the way it works in the IT world?”
“I’d like to meet your father,” Peter said.
Roxy, who had taken another sip of water, choked and barely managed to swallow. “Why?” She coughed into the back of her hand.
“You met my parents when they were in town from Florida last month. Isn’t that supposed to be part of the process of getting to know each other better?”
Roxy eyed Peter suspiciously. “I’m not sure. It’s hard for me to imagine you sitting down with my father and talking about anything that you’re interested in.”
“We’re both interested in you.”
Peter’s simple statement stunned Roxy. Tears rushed to her eyes. She grabbed the linen napkin from her lap and quickly raised it to her face.
“Peter,” she said from behind the napkin.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I mean, I know you and your dad aren’t close, but I didn’t want to upset you—”
“Oh, it’s not that,” Roxy replied with a sniffle. She gave a slight shake of her shoulders to compose herself. “It’s the thought that my father should care about me the same way you do. We’ve only been dating for nine months, but you’ve shown me more kindness and respect than I’ve received from any other man, including him, in my life. Thinking of that, along with my mother dying, just—”
A House Divided Page 14
