Corbin began to feel overwhelmed by the scope of what a searching and fearless moral inventory required. Even more daunting was the prospect of trying to make amends to those he’d hurt. His strategy had been to ignore the wrongs he committed and hope those affected by them would do the same.
“Steps Four, Seven, and Eight are like everything else in a good program,” the woman said as she came to the end of her talk. “They’re done one day at a time by the grace of God and the fellowship of Alcoholics Anonymous. Thanks for listening.”
After the meeting, Jimmy came over to Corbin. “Well?” he asked.
“You know the answer,” Corbin replied. “I’m thinking this is impossible. How long was your list, and what happened when you tried to make amends? That could get messy.”
“I never counted pages. All I’ve cared about is whether I’m being honest or slipping into alcoholic double-talk. You start your list where God and your mind take you. It can be recent; it can be forty years ago.”
“That’s my time frame.”
“And you can’t control how people react when you make amends. We’ve spent too many years believing the lie that we can control ourselves and others. That’s not true whether you’re drunk or sober. In making amends you say what you need to say, pay what you need to pay, confess what you need to confess, return what you need to return, forgive what you need to forgive, etc. And leave the results up to God. I compare it to a seed. You plant it with the hope that it will take root and grow up into something beautiful.”
Corbin looked at Jimmy with increased respect. “How did you get to be so smart?”
“I’ve had good sponsors,” Jimmy replied with a smile. “And I know how we alcoholics think.”
When he got home, Corbin sat on the front stoop and watched the stars pop into view. It was a clear night, and this far from town there wasn’t much competition from artificial light. Soon the sky filled with shiny pinpoints of white. Corbin surveyed the multitude.
“That’s not even close to the number of wrongs in my inventory,” he said to the expanse above his head.
And in that instant an unexpected thought flashed through his mind.
But the light shines in the darkness.
Startled, Corbin looked to his right in a reflex reaction to see where the idea came from. He’d never heard, or claimed to hear, the voice of God. But with piercing succinct clarity the words etched themselves on his soul. He leaned back and stared again at the stars, thousands of lights shining in the darkness.
Now they looked like friends, not enemies.
Ray lay on his back awake, his head resting on the pillow. Cindy was breathing peacefully beside him. He slipped out of bed and made his way into Billy’s bedroom. A shaft of light from the street came through the window and illuminated Billy’s form enough that Ray could see the outline of his face. Ray knelt on the floor and rested his hands on the spot at the foot of the bed where the light touched the bedspread.
Praying at night was something Ray had done sporadically since he and Cindy brought Billy home as an infant from the hospital. But the origin of the practice went back to Ray’s own childhood when his mother would slip into his room from time to time and do the same for him. In spite of her best efforts at being quiet, it wasn’t unusual for him to wake up as she knelt beside his bed. When he was a little boy, he would sit up in bed to receive a reassuring hug before drifting back to sleep. As he grew older he would pretend to remain asleep and let the comforting wave of peace she brought to the room flow over him. It was impossible to explain but wonderful to experience. Ray longed to bring the same reality to Billy.
And recapture it himself.
The upheaval in so many areas of his life following his mother’s death had taken its toll. Ray began to mentally check those areas off. As he did, his anxiety increased. Some things were good, especially Cindy’s pregnancy and the glimmer of hope about his father’s alcoholism. But the existence of hope not realized carried its own levels of tension and stress. And the things that were bad generated a long list with much less obvious solutions. Ray let out a long sigh.
“Are you okay?” Billy asked.
Ray glanced at Billy, who was lying on his side, watching him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“Why are you praying?” He sat up.
Ray got up from his knees, sat at the end of the bed, and told Billy about his grandmother.
“She used to do that when I spent the night with her,” Billy said.
“I’m sure she did.”
“I liked sleeping at her house.”
“How do you like this room?”
“It’s good too.” Billy yawned. “When I’m really tired, I can sleep anywhere.”
It was true. Ray had seen Billy nap through thunderstorms and fire engine sirens.
“Good night,” Ray said, getting up from the bed.
“Good night, Daddy. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
Ray left the room. He stopped at Billy’s door and glanced back at his son. Somewhere between the bed and the door, the peace Ray longed for returned. He closed his eyes to savor it for a moment. Maybe the mention of his mother’s prayers was enough to summon it back. Maybe he could capture her faith and pay it forward.
A cool, damp drizzle was falling when Roxy left her townhome for her morning run. She didn’t go out in a downpour, but a few drops of moisture hovering in the air were a natural spritzer that refreshed her as her body heated up with exercise. Only a handful of runners joined her in Piedmont Park. The moist air motivated her to quickly increase her tempo, and her feet beat a rapid staccato across the grass and onto one of her favorite paths. She scaled back to cruising speed, and her mind turned to Peter. Now that she had someone to love, she wanted to do it right just like everything else in her life. But there was someone standing in the way.
Her father.
When she was in college, she’d looked up the personality traits of adult children of alcoholics and tried to convince herself she didn’t have the typical defects. She wasn’t afraid of authority figures, nor did she struggle with guilt when she stood up for herself. Criticism didn’t freak her out, and she wasn’t attracted to alcoholics or friends with addictive personalities.
But in the solitude of her morning run, Roxy knew there were flaws that dogged her: isolation, an overdeveloped sense of responsibility, a tendency to judge herself and others harshly, the inability to trust, and fear of commitment.
She knew Peter wanted what was best for her. He’d proven that beyond all reasonable doubt. And his desire that they be an emotionally healthy couple was every sane woman’s dream.
The morning mist began to clear, and there were cracks in the cloud cover, holding hope for a clearer day. Roxy reached the turnaround point in her run and began to retrace her steps. This path was familiar. The one leading to the healing of her heart remained unknown.
“I heard this morning that they’re going to transfer Judge Ellington to a rehab facility,” Janelle said when Corbin arrived at the office.
“Is he communicating yet?”
“No, but he recognizes his wife and grandson.”
Corbin thought of what it would be like to be lying in a hospital room with Billy standing beside his bed. “Schedule an appointment for me with Dr. Fletchall,” he said.
“Have you paid your bill? The last time you wanted to see him, they wouldn’t give you an appointment because of an outstanding charge.”
“Uh, no.”
“Do you still want me to call?”
“I guess not.”
Ray came in carrying the morning mail. “This is for you,” he said, handing Corbin an envelope from the DA’s office. “I’ve sent out plenty of those.”
Corbin stuck the envelope in his pocket.
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Janelle asked.
“Just so you can satisfy your curiosity?” Corbin replied.
“I’ll find out eventual
ly,” Janelle sniffed.
“And then you’ll have an answer to your question.” Corbin turned to Ray. “Anything else in there?”
Ray handed Corbin another envelope. It was from Simpkin, Brown, and Stamper.
“It’s probably the settlement documents in the Morrison v. Pegrim case,” Corbin said as he wedged a thick finger under the seal and ripped it open. “Those are way overdue.”
He read for a moment, then looked up at Ray. “It’s a motion to dismiss filed by Nate Stamper in the Colfax case. It’s set for hearing in front of Judge Perry.”
“On what grounds?” Ray asked.
“Lack of subject matter jurisdiction and failure to state a claim upon which relief can be granted.”
“That’s bogus,” Ray replied with a wave of his hand. “It’s just a delaying tactic.”
“That’s not all,” Corbin continued. “There’s a notice of association of co-counsel. They’re bringing in another law firm to assist with the defense.”
“Who is it?”
“Frank and Donaldson,” Corbin replied grimly as he handed the papers to Ray.
“Frank and Donaldson,” Janelle repeated with a puzzled look on her face. “Isn’t that where Roxy works?”
FORTY-FIVE
Come into my office,” Corbin said to Ray. “We need to talk.” As soon as the door closed, he continued. “I thought all they did was pharmaceutical work.”
“That’s what Roxy does,” Ray replied. “Have you ever looked at the firm’s website? It’s like a map of the world. They handle all types of complex litigation, from medical patents in France to commercial zoning in Singapore. If there’s a client with deep pockets, Frank and Donaldson is poised to jump in. One thing is clear. Colfax is taking the lawsuit seriously and doesn’t trust Nate Stamper to take care of it.”
Corbin read the notice more carefully. He’d never heard of Theodore Daughbert, the lawyer mentioned in the pleadings.
“I don’t recognize the name of the lawyer they’ve associated,” he said. “Roxy works with a guy named Caldwell or something like that.”
“Her supervisor is Caldweller, and the firm has at least five hundred partners. This guy may not even be in the Atlanta office. They could bring him in by special leave of the court.”
Corbin and Ray stared at each other for a moment.
“Do you think I should call Roxy and ask her what she can tell me about this Daughbert guy?” Corbin asked. “I wouldn’t be asking anything about the case, only what she knows about him.”
“No,” Ray replied. “And there’s something related to Roxy’s career you don’t know.”
There was an e-mail from Dr. Sellers in Roxy’s inbox. The chemist had received the water samples from Alto and promised to have a report to her within the next few days. Roxy typed a brief reply that she’d mailed the check for his services the day before. After she finished dealing with forty-eight other pending e-mails, she began working on preparation for a deposition scheduled the following week in Toronto. Unless he dumped the task on her at the last minute, Mr. Caldweller would fly up and take the deposition. Her job was to make sure there weren’t any surprises.
At noon she got up to stretch and take a break. Her phone vibrated. It was a text from Peter that contained a link to a website that sold gourmet caramel-covered apples. Roxy smiled as she clicked on the link. The sight of the golden brown apples made her stomach growl. She took a caramel from her stash in the desk drawer and began to unwrap it. There was a knock on her door, and she quickly dropped the caramel and closed the drawer.
“Come in,” she said.
It was Mr. Caldweller, accompanied by a fit-looking lawyer in his forties with neatly trimmed brown hair.
“Roxy, this is Ted Daughbert,” Caldweller said. “He came down from Chicago to consult with a client yesterday. His return flight isn’t until later this afternoon, and I thought the three of us could do lunch.”
“I’d like that,” Roxy replied, standing up to shake Daughbert’s hand.
The man had the firm grip of an athlete.
“Ted is a new member of the partner committee,” Mr. Caldweller said while they waited for an elevator to respond. “He was going to call you, but when this came up he decided to take care of two matters at once.”
“Byron tells me you’re a serious runner,” Daughbert said in an accent that sounded Midwestern.
Hearing someone refer to Mr. Caldweller by his first name was always a bit unnerving to Roxy. “I enjoy it.”
“Year round?”
“Yes, the winters are usually mild here, and it takes a really bad day to keep me inside. How about you? Do you train crossfit?”
“Yes, how did you guess?” Daughbert asked in surprise.
“Roxy has uncanny instincts,” Caldweller grunted. “It can be unnerving.”
“Your handshake,” Roxy said. “It wasn’t hard to tell that you’ve been in the weight room. And pumping iron by itself is boring. Like the law firm, I’d expect you to diversify.”
Daughbert laughed. The elevator reached the ground floor, and they got out.
“I’m into core strength more than anything else,” Daughbert said. “With resistance workouts thrown in.”
“I’ll break up a run with a few sets of Kipping pull-ups every so often,” Roxy replied. “There’s a horizontal bar station on one of the routes I take.”
“Stop it,” Caldweller cut in. “I don’t like people talking about things I know nothing about.”
“I’m convinced exercise makes me a better lawyer,” Daughbert said as they entered the parking deck. “It doesn’t just keep me in shape; it flushes the toxins out of my brain.”
“Toxins are Ted’s specialty,” Caldweller said to Roxy. “He’s developed a nice niche defending chemical companies from environmental and toxic tort claims.”
“Somebody has to protect companies like Monsanto,” Daughbert said with a smile. “They’re always getting harassed by rogue members of the plaintiffs’ bar looking to swipe a few bills from their pockets.”
“Their very deep pockets,” Caldweller added.
They reached Mr. Caldweller’s vehicle, a white Mercedes with an interior like a corporate jet.
“Byron tells me you have a chemistry degree and know how to use it,” Daughbert said as he held the door open for Roxy to get into the passenger seat.
“It helps,” Roxy replied, “but I don’t try to turn myself into an expert witness.”
“I do,” Daughbert said crisply. “Otherwise the other side’s witness works me over instead of the other way around.”
“Don’t let Roxy fool you,” Caldweller said. “She does the same thing without getting bigheaded about it.”
An uneasy silence descended on the car.
“What kind of case brought you to Atlanta?” Roxy asked in an effort to get the conversation rolling.
“A cancer claim against a fertilizer company.”
Roxy felt the blood drain from her face. She stared straight ahead, glad that the Chicago lawyer couldn’t see her expression. He continued.
“A sole practitioner in a little town north of here filed a state court action case alleging a fertilizer company contaminated the groundwater and caused a couple of kids to contract non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I’ve reviewed all the data, including a study by the Georgia EPA, and there’s nothing to it. No legitimate science supports the allegations in the complaint or a causal connection to the illness.
“I handled a similar case last year in Illinois filed by an aggressive law firm who put up a decent fight before caving in. They spent at least a hundred thousand dollars in expenses and two or three times that in attorney time before we kicked them out of court. By the time I’m finished with the lawyer in this case, he’ll wish he’d stuck to fender benders and DUIs.”
While Daughbert talked, Roxy gripped the straps of the seat belt across her waist and forced herself to breathe evenly.
Caldweller spoke up. “People who claim
computer research evens the playing field between big firms and small outfits don’t see the whole picture,” he said.
Roxy remained silent as the conversation veered toward technology and the practice of law.
“Have you spent time in Chicago?” Daughbert asked Roxy as they approached the valet stand for the restaurant.
“Uh, yes. I was there not long ago meeting with a chemist serving as a shadow expert.”
“Who was it?”
“Willard Sellers.”
“Yeah, I’ve used him several times. He’s sharp.” Daughbert paused. “Now that you mention him, he might be a good choice to bring into the fertilizer case.”
“No!” Roxy blurted before she could stop herself.
The valet opened the door, and Roxy slipped out before Caldweller or Daughbert could ask her to explain her over-the-top reaction.
“Let me handle it,” Ray said to his father. “Roxy is going to freak, and I don’t want—” He stopped.
“Me to mess it up?” Corbin finished the sentence.
“It’s hard for her to hear anything from you,” Ray replied. “Especially something that will make her feel vulnerable.”
As soon as he spoke the words, Ray regretted them. What he’d said was true, but it was truth packed in deep layers of recrimination.
“You’re right,” Corbin said after a few moments passed. “But at least tell me what you’re going to say.”
“There’s not much I can say. We’re on opposite sides of a huge lawsuit, and there has to be a total wall of separation for any relevant communication. Roxy will have to notify the expert in Chicago that she’s out of the picture. Then we can only hope nobody at Frank and Donaldson finds out she did anything to help us.”
A House Divided Page 32
