by Lexi Whitlow
Poor Logan,
Your wallowing spiral into self-destruction failed miserably. You survived. Now take this Advil, drink all the water, and get in the shower – you reek.
If you ever do that again, I will dump you. I’m no fan of crybabies. Buck-up.
Dinner at my place tonight, we have more to talk about. You passed out before we even got to the broken condom. WTF?
Gold Digger
If that doesn’t make him laugh, he murdered his sense of humor with alcohol poisoning.
* * *
My early breakfast meeting goes swimmingly well.
This morning Wake County Legal Aid extended the offer of CFO to Miles Merriweather, who just retired as Executive Director of Finance at a big corporate law firm in Charlotte. He’s sixty years old, bright, shrewd, and determined to bring his years of experience to our non-profit, advocating for the little people.
After all these weeks trying to organize the start-up with just the help of a handful of young attorneys who, like me, all have full-time jobs, it feels great to hand the responsibility over to grown-ups who know what they’re doing, and have the time to do it.
I’m walking on clouds as I pass through the doors of the firm, headed to my office. My ebullient mood is quickly deflated by our receptionist.
“Mr. Beckett asked to see you as soon as you arrive,” she informs me, gnawing her lip anxiously. “Before coffee. Before you go to your office.”
What now?
I turn right instead of left, toward the wing of our building with better carpet, bigger offices, and nicer views out the windows. My office overlooks the parking lot. The view on this side opens on a lovely little woodland. My father wanted to give me an office over here, but I declined. I wanted to work my way up with the rest of the juniors. I didn’t want the appearance of special treatment. I was naïve.
Two of my father’s senior partners are present as I arrive, knocking tentatively on the doorframe, leaning in.
Their conversation goes silent as all eyes fall on me.
“You wanted to see me?”
Daddy motions me in. “Close the door behind you,” he says. His expression is grave.
“Sit,” he says, pointing toward the small chair in front of his desk. His partners hover, standing at either side of me. Daddy regards me cautiously, then hands me a short stack of papers.
The cover sheet is a service process from the Sheriff’s Department. Beneath that is a summons.
‘Pearson vs. Beckett, case no. 914576-B, District Court’
Turning the page, the flesh at the back of my neck tingles with dread.
The complaint indicates Charles W. Pearson as the Plaintiff, with E. Bryn Beckett and Beckett, Burkehead & Winslow, LLC, as Co-Defendants.
I read on into the specifics. The claims horrify me, while causing me to laugh aloud.
Charles has filed suit against me for sexual harassment and creating a toxic work environment. He’s filed against the firm for maintaining a workplace where such behavior is tolerated.
He’s turned everything on its head. Half this complaint is absolutely true, except he’s the perpetrator who was protected by the boy’s club atmosphere of this place!
“This is outrageous,” I say, keeping my tone measured.
My father and his partners regard me with caution.
“What?” I ask.
They have no words. Odd, given they’re all lawyers.
“You don’t believe this, do you?” I ask. “At least the part about me sexually harassing Charles?”
My father shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Of course not.”
“Okay then,” I chirp. “What can I do to help?”
My father sits down on the corner of his desk, folding his arms over his chest. He hauls in a breath, letting it out slowly. He says, “Go home.”
What?
He shakes his head in resignation, offering his summation. “After everything that happened with Charles over the last couple days, and everything that happened before that never got dealt with properly, and everything I’ve learned about him since—which is all very troubling—we need to treat this lawsuit as the potential land mine it is.”
Daddy releases his arms, placing palms down on the desk beneath him.
“We need to appear as if we’re taking this seriously,” he says. “When we go to court, we have to be unimpeachable in how we handled these allegations.”
You’re kidding me.
“Let me get this straight,” I say. “A female lawyer on the junior team lodges a harassment complaint against Charles a year ago, and two weeks later she’s fired. And then I lodge one a few months ago, and not a god-damned thing happens to Charles. Now you get this piece of creative writing, and I have to go home?”
I move from man to man, asking the question, settling livid eyes on my father.
“Are none of you capable of seeing the malignant double standard—based on gender alone—in how you treat the same complaint? The guy gets to go on as if he’s done nothing wrong, but when it’s a woman, I get sent home? And what’s more, you know Charles is guilty of everything, just like you know this is bullshit.”
I shake the papers at them.
“You’re seriously sending me home?”
His partners appear chastened, but my father is steadfast. “It’s what we have to do. And you can say what you want, but I’d do the same if it was any male on the team. I didn’t know about Charles—”
“You didn’t know because you didn’t want to know!” I spit at him, standing up, pulling my bag onto my shoulder. “You organized this place so you don’t have to deal with the ugly parts. You have people who know their job is to keep you comfortably in the dark. You knew exactly what you wanted to know, exactly when. Only when Charles posed a threat to your client roster and your income, that’s when you drew the line. Not an instant before.”
I pull my bag close, glaring at all of them.
“I’ll leave,” I hiss. “Of course I will. That’s what the girls always have to do. You let me know when you need me for a deposition or a hearing. And just FYI, I’ve retained copies of every written statement I and other attorney’s here have made about Charles and his behavior, as well as detailed, dated and time-stamped notes on my conversations with him. You trained me well, Daddy. You’re still doing it. I may consider a lawsuit as well.”
I walk out of my father’s office square shouldered, head high. Before departing the building, I collect my diploma from Columbia and my Bar Association credential from the wall of my office, along with a few other personal items.
I want to put the fear of God into my father and his partners. I want them to know that just because my surname is Beckett, I’m not going to cow-tow to their cover-ups and 19th century Men’s Club method of doing business. I may be my own first client at Wake County Legal Aid.
Wouldn’t that be something? Beckett vs. Beckett, Burkehead & Winslow, LLC.
It has a nice ring to it.
* * *
Instead of going home, I decide to make the best use of my time. I’m pissed-off and agitated. I know my energy can be applied to useful things. I head over to the Legal Aid offices, hang my Columbia diploma on the wall behind my desk, then get on the phone ordering office supplies to outfit the place like a real law firm.
Midway through the afternoon, my phone buzzes in my purse, providing a much-needed distraction.
It’s a text.
Logan: Oh God my head hurts. I’m so sorry about last night. Forgive me?
I type back,
Bryn: Forgiven. I’ve had a really shitty day. Third in a row. Would you like to hear about it?
A second later his reply comes back.
Logan: Sure. I’ll listen to anything you want to talk about.
Who is this guy and where did he come from? He wants to listen to me kvetch about the petty injustices of my first-world complaints, while he’s nursing an epic hangover? What guy does that?
Another text pings my phone.
Logan: BTW, I may need a criminal defense attorney shortly, as I’m likely to commit murder on Charles Pearson. Details forthcoming. Have you ever tried a capital murder case?
What the ever-loving-fuck?
Chapter 20
Logan
I’m dehydrated, fuzzy, and gut-sick from last night’s bender. I’ve learned a valuable lesson; I’m not cut out to be a drunk. My father excelled in that sport, but I’m an amateur.
Before I’m coherent, still nursing my first cup of coffee, Tim Dunigan calls with more news, none of it good. We spend the better part of the early afternoon going over the details in the kitchen while my head pounds.
A woman who very briefly babysat Drake, has filed a lawsuit against him, for sexual assault and battery.
This alleged assault is supposed to have occurred was while I was in rehab at the hospital at Chapel Hill, following my last knee surgery. I can’t attest to where anyone was or what transpired, because I was completely absent. What’s more, I barely knew the girl. I met her once or twice. I recall Drake didn’t like her much, and as soon as I was able to come home, we let her go.
“This one has complications,” Tim states coolly. “First, there’s the question of competence. I don’t think Drake can assist in his own defense. But without his participation, the court only gets her side of the story.”
I should have taken Charles Pearson’s head off when I had the chance. I should have hurt him. I should have broken him into small pieces, so he couldn’t ever do this kind of thing to anybody.
Coming after Drake is crossing a hard line. One way or another, he’s going to pay for this.
“The other issue is that Drake is going to look bad in a courtroom. They’ll push for a jury trial. We’ll ask for a judge. It could go either way. If we get a jury, I’m worried prejudice will taint any chance we have of a fair hearing.”
“We can’t drag Drake through a trial, in front of a judge, or otherwise,” I say, my head throbbing with the sound of my own voice. “What will it take to settle it?”
Tim winces. “They’re suing for six million. We can probably settle for four. But you’re showing your Achilles heel if you settle. More will follow.”
“I can’t put Drake through it,” I say. “Make it go away.”
Tim’s brow furrows as he regards me. “Do you think there’s anything to this?” he asks. “Could this be a legitimate? Did Drake—”
“No,” I reply, cutting him off. “Drake can pitch a hell of a tantrum when he gets mad. He bites and breaks things. But he’s never acted out like that. He’s more inclined to hurt himself than anyone else. And never anything sexual. Never.”
“We should fight it,” Tim says. “Or at the very least, appear as if we’re going to fight it.”
I don’t understand.
“The first thing we do is take depositions. Drake’s capable of sitting down and having a conversation. Especially if you and your Mother are there with him for support. Right?”
I nod.
“Let’s at least do that, and see what Drake has to say for himself.”
I hate that idea, but Tim is the expert in these things. He hasn’t led me astray yet.
* * *
By the time I get to Bryn’s I’m still in a funk, but the symptoms have begun to subside. My headache is merely a dull thumping at the temples; it’s more annoying than painful. I’ve consumed enough water to flush most of the lingering toxins from my system. Now all I’ve got is cottonmouth and a mildly queasy stomach because I haven’t eaten much today.
I was promised dinner. What I get is something else, and far more appealing. She’s made breakfast.
“I thought you’d like some grease and carbs,” she says, greeting me at the door with a dubious smile. The scent of frying bacon wafts past.
I’m drawn to it like a cat on the trail of a mouse. Her kitchen is my Nirvana. Pancakes and scrambled eggs steam on the griddle, there’s bacon sizzling in a covered skillet. Fresh coffee is brewing and there’s maple syrup warming in hot water on the stove.
“Perfect,” I pronounce, offering a small smile, the first of the entire day.
She sets my place at the kitchen bar, piling a plateful of the savory goodness then setting it before me.
“Eat, and when you’re ready to come up for air, tell me what the heck set you off last night.”
Bryn pulls up a stool on the end of the bar beside me, sipping coffee, nibbling a pancake, watching me wolf down mouthfuls, barely chewing.
I wasn’t hungry before—not all day. Now I’m starving.
She’s amused with me, her eyes smiling, silently appraising me. She’s adorable in her haughty superiority.
Five minutes in and my headache subsides. I can breathe without aching from head to toe. Ten minutes and a half-dozen pancakes later, it’s as if a veil has lifted. My vision brightens. I can think again.
“Lawsuits,” I say without preamble. “Lots of lawsuits. That’s what set me off.”
Bryn’s brows arch. “Tell me,” she asks.
I chew a mouthful of succulent bacon, relishing its salty fat, then swallow, chasing it with sweet orange juice. “Charles—your buddy from the law firm—he’s been busy scouring the world for every single human being who ever met me, and a few who didn’t, to cock-up one fictitious lawsuit after another. Paternity suits seem to be his favorite game, but he’s even found someone to sue Drake for sexual assault.”
Bryn’s eyes go dark with this piece of intelligence. The muscles in her jaw flex.
“Before this is all said and done, I’m pretty sure I’m going to break his neck.”
I’m remarkably calm recounting all this. I’ve had a couple days to process the bulk of it, and I’ve had Tim to reassure me through the last bit. Calm aside, I’m still going to break Charles Pearson in half and shove his nuts down his throat.
She quizzes me on the exact nature of the lawsuits. I tell her everything I can remember, along with what Tim believes the motivation for all of it is.
“He wants money,” I say. “A lot of money. All the people he’s got cooperating with him, they’re just playing along. It costs them nothing, and if I fold, they get a payday.” I shrug. “I guess it’s better odds than the lottery.”
“I always knew Charles was unscrupulous and a little cruel,” Bryn says. “But I never pegged him for being this criminally devious. Take heart, you’re not the only target.”
She tells me about the suit he’s filed against her. My blood boils all over again.
He’s too vile to kill. I’m going to torture him slowly.
“And the best part of all, because of it, I got put on leave ‘til they sort it out.”
Her expression is barely suppressed anger wrought with bitter irony.
“I’ve never spoken to my father the way I did today,” Bryn says without emotion. “I called him on his bullshit, threw his misogynistic double-standards up in his face, then I threatened to sue him.”
“You did what?” I ask, astonished.
She nods, offering a wry, half-satisfied smile. “I did,” she says. “And I may.”
This is just getting more and more surreal.
We cover all the territory on this topic, and I find that it makes me feel better talking with Bryn about it. She’s grounded, thoughtful, and above all, she’s got a sense of humor that I admire. All of that, combined with the fact that she’s easy to be with, causes me to love her even more than I did yesterday when I was sure I’d lost her, and my heart was breaking.
“What about Drake? What are you going to do?” Bryn asks.
“Tim is trying to get his deposition scheduled as quickly as possible,” I say. “He wants to give Charles the sense that we’re raring to fight this, to take it to court.”
Bryn heaves a heavy sigh. “Charles is a scrapper,” she says. “I hope your guy Tim is prepared to play nasty.”
“I think he is,” I reply. “I think he’s looking forward to winding him up, th
en sending him spinning like a top. He’s dealt with this kind of thing before.”
With that ground well-trod over, Bryn changes the subject.
“So… the condom broke?” she asks.
I nod, my face screwing up like a guilty five-year-old. “Yeah,” I admit. “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before but… I’m just sorry.”
“Which condom, when?” she asks.
