Old School

"Buddy, you can't live like this with all of this boiling up inside you indefinitely, whatever it is. I'm not saying I got answers that will fix everything, but you can trust me and I can connect you with people who can help, believe me," I said.

"There are people in this world who care about you, Dano. You're talking to one of them."

He stared at me.

"Les, if I told you, then you'd have all this to carry around and it would be too much for you, too. And eventually you'd go tell somebody. It's just human nature."

I nodded.

"Give me a dollar bill, Dano."

"Huh?"

"A dollar bill. I'll write a representation agreement on the back of this napkin and sign and date it and give it to you, then you sign and date it. That constitutes a binding attorney-client relationship between us. It means that under pain of disbarment, I can never disclose what you tell me within that relationship."

"Never? Not to my friends? Not to my boss? Not to my folks?"

"Never. It's the law. What you tell me has to go with me to my grave without ever being divulged. The whole practice of law relies on it."

Dano pulled out his wallet, handed me a rumpled dollar bill, and looked at me with the first tentative glimmer of trust and hope I had seen from him in years. I wrote out in longhand the basic language of a representation contract — just three sentences — with my pen, signed it, affixed the date next to it, handed it to Dano, gave him my pen and instructed him to do likewise. He did and handed me my pen and the napkin.

"OK. That makes it official. I am your attorney," I said.

Danny stared at me as if he expected me to launch into an interrogation.

"So... do I just start talking or what," he asked.

"No. Not here. Never in a setting like this. No expectation of privacy or confidentiality with this many people here watching Kentucky getting its ass kicked," I said. "For now, we just relax, order another round of Sam Adamses and a plate of wings and watch us some ball. We'll talk other stuff later."

Dano leaned back in his chair and looked composed. The desperation in his eyes had vanished. The start of a smile tugged at the left corner of his lips as he looked at me and gave me a barely perceptible nod. For now, I had made headway, but the heavy lifting awaited.

The sun would set behind the Ohio River and the hills that stood watch on either side of it in Ohio and Kentucky by the time Minnesota finally succumbed to Ohio State and it was time to go our separate ways. I was encouraged to see that Dano had put away only four beers over a span of about six hours. He gorged himself on wings and drank water on pace with the lagers and could pass any sobriety checkpoint he might encounter on his ride home.

When I returned to Hatch Street and Ryder, a text that had come in while I was driving awaited me on my phone. It was from a number I did not recognize, a strange thing to receive on a Saturday evening. It was from the 859 area code in Kentucky and my mobile device said it originated in a Danville, Kentucky, exchange.

Hi Les. I'm hoping you remember me. This is Kass — Kass Felson from Dunbar. Can you call me at this number when it's convenient?

This could not be good. Kass Felson had the leading role in Dano's tawdry Super Bowl orgy fable. If word had gotten back to her about what Dano was saying, my newest client by virtue of a one-dollar retainer could be in actual legal jeopardy, and defamation is not my area of practice.

Never one to let bad news simmer, I hit the phone number and listened as the call connected.

"Felson's on Main, this is Kass," came the woman's voice on the other end of the line.

"Hi, this is Les Walker, also from back at Dunbar. I got a missed call and VM from you...," I said, my voice thick with awkward uncertainty.

"Oh hi, Les. Thank you for calling me back so soon. Wasn't expecting that and it's nothing urgent. I'm at work right now and have customers in the store, so I wonder if I could maybe call you tomorrow afternoon?"

"Um, sure. And yes, I do remember you from Dunbar. I think we even went to prom together my junior year, did we not?"

"That's right! I'm glad you remembered. Long time ago and lots of time between then and now," she said.

"Not that I need a reason to catch up with an old friend, but any hints what's on your mind?"

"Oh, just some questions about a mutual old friend of ours," she said. "What time's good tomorrow?"

"I'm easy pretty much any time. I'll put your number in my contacts. Is this your personal cell? You seem to be calling from a business."

"Oh yeah it's my personal cell, but I use it a lot for work. This was the women's clothing store in Danville my grandparents opened after Pap Paw came back from the Navy in World War II," she said. "I inherited it after Mama and Daddy passed and own and run it now."

"I'm impressed, Kass. Good for you. Call whatever time works. I'm just lounging around the house with my dog watching football."

We said our goodbyes and hung up. Part of me was tempted to call Dano and see if he had any inkling what this was all about, but I decided to leave well enough alone and not ruin Danny Albertson's fleeting moment of peace until I knew what was on Kass's mind.

I was hoping what she had to say wouldn't rock Dano's world. Or mine.

▼ ▼ ▼

I hadn't finished my first cup of Sunday morning coffee when I heard the iPhone buzz and rattle against the granite countertop where I had left it. I picked it up to see "Unknown Caller" as the originator. I never answer those calls — a telemarketer at best, some scammer in Mumbai or Somalia at worst — and let them go to voicemail. If it's legit, someone can leave a message. Usually, they don't.

I had barely gotten through the first few paragraphs of a story on the front page of my Sunday New York Times when the chime on my phone sounded indicating that someone had indeed left a voicemail.

"Mr. Walker, this is Sergeant Burnley of the Kentucky State Police. I wonder if you could give us a call at your earliest opportunity," the drawling, deep-voiced caller said before reciting the number. I jotted it down and called it immediately. It was the KSP post in Covington, a helpful woman who answered my call said. I asked for Sergeant Burnley and she transferred me to him quickly.

"Sergeant Mason Burnley, can I help you?"

I identified myself and told the sergeant I was returning his call. He thanked me for my prompt response, but already the grave tone of his voice told me bad tidings awaited.

"Do you know a Daniel Albertson, Mr. Walker?" I told him I do and had since at least middle school back in Lexington, Kentucky.

"Well, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, sir, but Mr. Albertson was killed in a car crash last night that we're investigating," the sergeant said.

It felt as if someone had poured icewater down my spine and my stomach had fallen out of my abdomen. The only sound I could muster was an incoherent groan. My mind spun wildly, groping for some point in reality that I could seize and hold in an effort to make sense of the officer's words.

"Dano... dead... I..."

Sergeant Burnley gave me a moment to gather myself.

"I'm very sorry for your loss, Mr. Walker. I really am. If this is a bad time, I can...," he said.

"Can you tell... what can you tell me about how it happened? I was with Danny last evening watching a couple of ballgames at Buffalo Wild Wings in Covington, and I can assure you he was sober...," I stammered.

"Mr. Walker, we don't think this was a DUI kind of thing. In fact, we're not sure it was an accident at all. Happened on I-75 just south of Covington. His car left the highway at a very high rate of speed and hit a concrete support column for an overpass just after 11 o'clock last night," Burnley said.

"Not an accident? Then..."

"It has every indication that this was intentional. Took until nearly sun-up to clear up all the pieces of his car, some of them 200 to 300 feet from the point of impact. We figure he was doing at least 100 when he crashed."

"Suicide? You're saying Dano killed himself?"

"Looks that way. When we finally extricated his body from what as left of the car and got his wallet, we saw your name on a statement of some kind written on a cocktail napkin with what purports to be your signature and his on it," Burnley said. "A legal representation agreement of some kind? Does that sound right?"

I told him that I had drawn it up and we signed it the previous afternoon because he needed to tell me something that had to be kept secret and I proffered the client agreement to assure confidentiality.

"Well, can you tell us if he said anything that might help explain what happened to him a few hours later?" Burnley said.

"As you have probably deduced, I am a lawyer, and anything Danny might have told me related to matters for which I drew up the retainer is privileged," I said. "But we didn't talk about anything but football because there were too many people nearby and there was no way to assert a reasonable expectation of privacy."

"I see. But if I read between the lines right, something was bothering him enough that he had to share it with you in confidence," Burnley said.

"You could say that. I could tell something was on his mind and now I wish a million times I'd taken him out of there, out to my car and had him spill everything."

Saying it out loud sent a wave of regret and sorrow through me, and I felt nausea building in the pit of my gut.

"Mr. Walker, there was something else in his wallet pertaining to you, and this is why we're pretty sure this is a suicide. There was a note in there to 'whoever finds this' instructing us to contact you at the number where I left the voicemail. The note says to tell you he's sorry and he'll explain it all to you... later," Burnley said, his voice confused, searching. "Don't quite get why somebody about to kill himself would say something like that."

I slumped as I exhaled, now fighting off the urge to cry.

"I'm afraid I can't either, sergeant. I wish I had more answers for you, but all I have are some very painful questions," I said.

Then Burnley said he was considering a search warrant for Dano's home. I asked him why and what good could possibly come of it.

"Besides, search warrants are issued only in criminal investigations. Who are you building a criminal case against? You can't prosecute a deceased person," I said.

"Well we do have a crime — damaging public property, losses of a thousand dollars or more — and we need to know if there is evidence that anyone else might have been involved in this..."

Now I was astounded but also getting angry. I was tempted to tell him to go waste his time if he wanted, that there was nothing I could do to stop them, and he was unlikely to find anything beyond a bunch of empty pizza boxes and Bud Light bottles in Dano's tiny apartment. But there was a retainer signed by me and the decedent that gave me the express right and duty to act as his attorney in his interests.

"Officer, I live in Cincinnati but I'm licensed in Ohio and Kentucky, and I assure you I will be in court this morning to oppose a search warrant of his home and demand a public hearing if you want to pursue this," I said. "I am Danny's attorney, as that cocktail napkin retainer attests, and that gives me standing to act in his estate's interests."

Burnley was no lawyer, and trying to bluff someone who is wasn't a good move for him.

"Exactly what it is you're looking for, sergeant? Is this just a fishing expedition or what? You want to toss his apartment because he scratched up a 50-ton concrete highway support? How badly do you want to get laughed out of the courtroom?"

Then it occurred to me. He was fishing. This was something he had not run past the prosecuting attorney's office because they'd never allow something so foolish to go in front of a judge.

"Welll,... we have some... questions," Burnley said.

"Welll," I said, intentionally mocking the sergeant, "the only guy who can answer those questions is now dead. You can't get a search warrant and you know it. And if you try, I will embarrass you."

"I've told you all I know. The medical examiner, I suppose, has his remains and maybe that will give you some answers. So unless you have something more for me, this conversation is serving no purpose," I said.

"Mr. Walker... we have some questions about his, ahh... lifestyle," Burnley said.

"Mr. Burnley, since when did a dead man's 'life-style' become a matter for the police? Exactly what are you getting at? You're venturing onto some very treacherous legal ground, officer, and I seriously recommend you talk to a state's attorney before you utter another word."

There was an extended pause on the other end of the line.

"I think maybe we'd best continue this... discussion at a later time, Mr. Walker," he said.

"I think you're right, sergeant," I said and hung up.

▼ ▼ ▼

My second call was to Kass Felson, and I could tell when she answered that I had awakened her.

"Kass, it's Les," I said.

"Les?"

"Les Walker. We talked yesterday and you were busy at work and you were going to call me today. I'm sorry for calling you instead and doing it so early."

"Yes, Les! Sorry, still a little groggy. Thanks for calling," Kass said, shaking off the cobwebs of slumber. "I wanted to call you because of a strange call I got last night from one of our Dunbar classmates and I remembered the two of you were really closr."

"Was it Danny Albertson?"

"Yes! Dano! How did you know?"

"I was with him watching the UK-Ole Miss game at Buffalo Wild Wings in Covington yesterday and your name came up," I said, my voice flat and so devoid of joy that Kass noticed.

"Uh oh. You don't sound very happy about it, Les."

"Kass, I got some terrible news just now. Dano died last night."

I could hear her shriek on the other end of the line. "Oh no no no! Dear God..."

"Car crash on I-75 south of Covington. His car hit a large concrete support column for an overpass. Police estimate he was doing a hundred miles an hour at impact. They think it was intentional, that it was suicide," I said.

"Oh Les, I... I... don't know what to say. I am just stunned. He left a voicemail on my phone... about the time I was closing up the store around 7 last night and... it was... weird...," Kass said, her voice high and panicky, her words tumbling out in bunches.

"What was weird about it? What did he tell you?" I asked her.

"Well, he kept saying he was sorry, that he wasn't worthy of my friendship and that he always had a lot of admiration for me," she said. "It sounded like he was or had been crying. I didn't know what to make of it and that's why I called you."

"Did you save the voicemail?"

"I did. It's about 45 seconds long." Kass said. "Les, what if that was the last call he ever made... and I didn't answer?" Emotion was choking off her words. "Maybe I could have... could have said something, done something and... none of this would have happened? Oh God!"

Now she was sobbing, the phone well away from her face, perhaps dropped onto her bed.

"Kass...," I said loudly, trying to get her attention. "Kass!"

More of the same. Then the line went dead. I considered redialing, but guessed she needed time to collect herself, and then she would realize what happened and call me back. So I went back into the kitchen, poured out my first cup of coffee — now cooler than lukewarm — and poured myself a fresh, hot cup and sipped at it as I stared blankly out my window. Forty minutes later, my phone rang. It was Kass.

"Hi, Kass," I said. "I am so sorry to drop all of this on you this way first thing on a Sunday morning. I really am. It's a lot to handle... for both of us."

"That's OK, Les. I'm sorry I freaked out the way I did. It's been years since I last saw Dano — maybe our last Dunbar reunion? — but I guess it was thinking that I might have been the last phone call of his life," she said. "Which is what's so strange: after all those years why he'd call me out of the blue."

"Kass, Les had a lot of things going on — a lot of troubles in his life. There's nothing you could have done if you'd answered the phone last night, believe me. I saw Dano probably about once a week and I could tell he was slipping. His drinking was getting out of hand and some of the things he'd say, clearly just made-up fantasies."

"I'd rather not say how your name came up. But I was trying to convince Dano to let me help him, to connect him with some professionals who could help him cope with... whatever it was. I thought we'd made some progress when I drew up a retainer agreement that legally made him my client to reassure him that anything he told me I could not, under the law, ever disclose. He and I both signed it, so that made him my client."

"And then this...," I said. "Evidently, as bad as I thought it was, it was much worse."

"Les, I am so sorry. If anyone has reason to freak out and cry, it's you," she said. "Where are Dano's folks? Do they still live in Versailles?"

"I think he has a brother who lives over near Bardstown. His dad passed away while I was in law school at UC because I was a pallbearer. He had a sister and I think his mom's still alive, but I'm not sure where she lives now. Dano wasn't close to her."

"I suppose it's too soon for funeral arrangements?" Kass asked.

"Yeah. I'm guessing the medical examiner's got his remains now. I got a call from a KSP sergeant this morning and he was talking some nonsense about investigating this as a possible crime," I said. "So if you get a call from an unknown number, let it go to voicemail and if it's KSP, could you give me a call?"

"A crime? Killing yourself is a crime?"

"Well, legally, it's homicide, but it's sort of ridiculous because the perpetrator's also the victim. But this sergeant is pursuing some sort of agenda and... just don't answer if he calls and call me first if he leaves a voicemail. His name is Burnley."

A silence on the other end.

"Hello? Kass?"

"I'm here," she said eventually. "If you can't tell me what Dano was saying about me, that's OK. I suppose I don't need to know unless it somehow affects my security. You would tell me if that was the case, right Les?"

"I would, Kass. I would never allow any harm to come your way. But no, it in no way affects your safety or security. It was just a... a sick man's lie, a lie he was telling himself."

"OK, then it doesn't matter. Whatever he said, I forgive him. I want to remember him for who he was — a little rough around the edges and always out to prove something, but a sweet soul on the inside."

"I had a hunch that maybe Dano is what you wanted to talk about. I'll be in touch when I find out more about services," I said.

We bade our goodbyes and hung up.

Now it was time for me to sit in silence and give my heart and soul time to accept and begin grieving what had so shocked my conscious mind: Danny Albertson, my best friend and wingman since before we were in our teens, was dead. He took his own life less than a dozen hours earlier, less than five hours after we had watched football games together at a sports bar.

In one way, it made sense. Something was boiling inside Dano. His drinking and his delusional tales of bizarre carnal exploits had gotten progressively worse in the past few years. But what was it? What demon could have been so vicious and damning that he couldn't even name it, that he insisted on wrestling it alone?

My curiosity was only heightened by Sergeant Burnley's clumsy, irrational response, utterly devoid of empathy and clearly leaning toward propping up a preconceived notion behind what was a human being's desperate final act. I'm not sure what conspiracy this cop was intent on chasing, but as a last favor to Dano, I was going to find out.