Old School Ch. 04: The Weight

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance by any character or situation to any actual person or event is purely coincidental. All characters presented in this narrative are over the age of 18.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE WEIGHT

"You're worn out. I get it," Ramesh Quereshi, the managing partner of Gladney & Watson's Cincinnati office said. "It happens. It also occurs to me that you haven't taken a vacation since you were an associate, and that was seven years ago. You're overdue for time off. Hell, take a sabbatical — six to nine months — if that's what you need."

I shook my head and kept staring at his desk table in his spacious corner office. Quereshi, a small man with penetrating, dark eyes, stared at me like a hawk. I didn't have to look at him to feel it.

"Les, let's cut to the chase. What do you need? You want a raise, a larger partner distribution? That's not a problem. Your review is up in just a couple of months and I'm sure it's going to be splendid. I know I can sell that to the Board of Partners. We can sweeten it even more by creating a work group within the practice that you chair," said Wilson Rush, who leads the Trusts and Estates Practice and flew to Cincinnati from the Philadelphia office for this meeting.

"Guys, I appreciate it. I really do. And this really isn't about money," I said. "And the last thing I want is to ride herd on some bullshit work group and have that many more internal meetings to attend and reports to read."

Quereshi tightened his lips, frustration beginning to show. He was known within the firm for a thin thread of patience.

"Then how are we supposed to help you if you won't even tell us what you want. You told Taylor Morton and a couple of others in the practice that — how did you put it? — 'you're just not feeling it anymore?'" he said.

"Yes, you've had a couple of months from hell, but some of this you brought on yourself. You should have told us about this one-dollar retainer you had with your high school chum. I know you were trying to do the right thing for him and, yes, it ended tragically, but ...," Quereshi said, stopping to restrain his tongue, "... you know this off-the-books work is highly frowned upon by this firm. Considering the unique circumstances, we're letting it pass."

I flashed a look at Quereshi and then back at Rush. I said nothing it was clear that I was not pleased. I flexed my jaw and nodded my understanding and acceptance. They knew nothing of the retainer I had executed with Kass, written on the back of an electrical bill.

"Look, Rami's right. Take some time before you burn yourself to a cinder. Go find a warm beach and get a tan. Get back into running. Drink a little too much. Pick up a cute piece of ass to help you get over the breakup with your girl," Rush said.

Now I glared at him. My girl? And the implication that she's a "piece of ass"? I'm sure the vein on my temple was pulsing. My nostrils may or may not have flared. I did have the presence of mind to override the impulse to clench my fists, but the vibe was unmistakable. And rather than back off, Rush doubled down.

"You've been very successful here at Gladney. We've done very well together and we want it to continue. But you've got to get it through your head that you are an equity partner with a major goddamn firm, not some country lawyer down in Bum Fuck, Kentucky, stroking pocket-change retainers on your own with folks off the street who don't have a pot to piss in or a window to toss it out of. That's not the kind of law we practice here," he said, leaning forward while perched on the edge of his chair, his voice rising and his face reddening.

"We had to call in favors with the feds and even create a few new IOUs to keep Gladney's name — and yours — clear of this crazy-as-fuck gay-bashers case, Les. This firm is going to take in more than one-and-a-half billion dollars this year, and that's 200 million over 2021's final revenues. The last thing our clients want to see is one of their top private wealth services attorneys wallowing around in some tawdry, hillbilly holy-rollers tabloid case. Are you getting the picture, Walker?" Rush growled as spittle flew from his snarling mouth, baring his unnaturally white ceramic crowns.

I stared at him blankly, my anger now somehow dissipating and my confidence buoyed by Rush's comically over-the-top tantrum. Instead, I was now suppressing the urge to giggle at the ridiculous spectacle before me: Rush, with his ruddy Irishman's face now flushed beet red and his eyes, rheumy from too many years of liquor and cigarettes, bugging out; and Quereshi sitting bolt upright behind his desk, petrified that he might have to break up a fistfight.

My silence gave way to a smile that momentarily unsettled both men.

"You're right, Wilson. On all counts. You've crystallized everything ... perfectly. I accept it fully and I assure you it will remain top-of-mind going forward," I said.

I'm sure Rush had expected pushback if not a fist to the nose. He was torn between surprise and relief, though it took a moment for the relief part to register. It was only after he smiled that Quereshi allowed himself to exhale and smile.

"Good," Quereshi said. "Very good! That's what I was hoping you would say. Wilson and I will get our pitch on your behalf ready for the Board of Partners meeting in mid-January."

"Thanks, gentlemen. I'll get back to you then about taking the time off you suggested," I said extending my hand for both men to shake. "Until then, a Merry Christmas to you both!"

▼ ▼ ▼

In most years, it would have been a cheery Yuletide scene, almost the stuff of a Currier & Ives print. Mom, who had driven up from Louisville two days earlier, sat in the recliner stirring a mug of hot cocoa with a cinnamon stick. The flame of my fireplace gas logs warmed her and Ry, who lay curled in a semicircle at her feet. I sat a few feet away by myself on the sofa under a blanket with the TV remote.

Mom and I had attended Christmas Eve services at my Presbyterian church in Oakley, not unlike our tradition back in Versailles when I was a kid. But even there, as we solemnly observed the birthday of Jesus by singing "Silent Night" and holding small, lit candles, sad memories stirred. The last time I had been in this sanctuary, it was at Kass's behest and at her side, both of us aglow with new love. Even remembering Christmas Eve services as a kid brought back memories of Kass, who would invariably attend the same service in Versailles with her parents, Emmett and Lorene Felson.

Now, with the holiday plans Kass and I had penciled in that Sunday afternoon discarded and scattered like dead leaves, Mom and I watched "It's a Wonderful Life" on television. It's a longstanding ritual with her, even though it invariably makes her sniffle at the end.

Ry heard it first and jumped from his warmed slumber and ran to the front window and began to growl, his hackles bristling.

"What do you suppose that is, Les?"

I bounded up and walked over to where Ryder was trying to peer around the Christmas tree in the front window at something just in front of the house. Given all that had transpired with Burnley and his ilk at the Ebenezer church, I took such incidents seriously. That's when the melody started.

"Oh holy night, the stars are softly shining ..." children's voices sang. I turned on the front porch light.

"Carolers," I said. "Come look. It's kids from the neighborhood ..."

She came over as I opened the door and stood just inside it in my socked and slippered feet. As I watched, a lump formed in my throat.

"...It is the night of our dear Savior's birth. Long lay the world in sin and error pining ..."

Mom stood beside me. The cold rushing in from the open door sent a chill through her despite her housecoat over her warmest pajamas. A gentle snow fell as they sang.

By the time they finished, tears streamed down my face. Mom didn't notice it until after I thanked and praised the children, bade them a merry Christmas and a good night and closed the door.

"Oh, son ... what's wrong?" she said.

I shook my head. "Nothing. Everything. Missing Dano. Missing Dad. Really missing Kass. Holidays trigger these things, they say. Guess I'm old enough to relate now, huh?"

"Son, there will be better days ... better Christmases," she said. "It's not what any of us wanted. I know that."

"Thank you, Mom. At least we're together. That's something."

"Here, you sit down and let me get you something. You've been waiting on me hand-and-foot since I got here, just to keep busy. Give me just a second," she said.

I paused the movie. She hates to miss any part of it. Sometimes, she recites the lines right along with Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed. A few moments later, she returned with a tumbler full of a thick, creamy, tan-colored concoction.

"What's this," I asked.

"Boiled Custard. Saw some in the store and picked it up. You used to love it as a kid, but it was missing something back then," she said as she handed it to me. I took a sip and tasted the bourbon that darkened its appearance.

"If I'd have known about this then ..."

Mom laughed. "If we'd let you have a finger of Buffalo Trace with your boiled custard then, you'd have been a 250-pound alcoholic by the time you were twelve."

Mom got back in the recliner and Ry staked out a spot beside me on the sofa, sensing I needed some comforting. I hit play and the movie proceeded as I sipped my holiday cocktail and got drowsy. Just before I nodded off, my phone buzzed. I tried to ignore it but had to know who could be texting me at 10:30 on Christmas Eve. I looked at the screen.

KASS.

My heart beat double time. I had not heard from her in two weeks, not since I had delivered the news that the feds had relented and decided not to call her as a witness in the Ebenezer' case. She expressed reserved relief at the news. The state had already repaired her damaged car and returned it to her with the tracker removed. She was, at last, free of this troubling case that had snared her solely because of her relationship with me and no fault of her own. That call concluded my ten-dollar representation of her. She thanked me. A period of awkward silence on the line followed until we finally said we'd be in touch, or words to that effect, and hung up. Since then, we had been incommunicado.

Now I stared at the message alert bearing her name, tapped on it and her text appeared,

Hope you're doing well & w/ family. Tell Miss Elise hey for me if you see her. Merry Xmas, Les.

I hit reply.

Thank u. Mom's in Cinci w/ Ry & me. We're watching Wonderful Life. Neighborhood carolers just came by & started snowing. Miss U. Merry Xmas.

I thought for a moment about adding a heart emoji but decided to leave well enough alone. I hit send.

"Who was that, son," Mom asked.

"Kass. Just holiday greetings. And she says tell you hi."

She smiled and nodded knowingly. "Tell her Miss Elise wishes her a beautiful Christmas, too."

So I did. Exactly as Mom said it.

Kass texted back a thumbs-up. It wasn't the heart emoji that was my Christmas wish. But I'll take it.

▼ ▼ ▼

The forecast for the week between Christmas and New Year's Day was for clouds, rain and possibly snow. I was not in the mood for any of that. The notion of piling up on the sofa for seven days watching one meaningless bowl game after another was intolerable.

"Whatcha think of a road trip, Ry boy?" I asked Ryder the day after Christmas not long after Mom had departed to return to Louisville. He understood "road trip" and gave me the characteristic alert and eager look, his head cocked to one side, that he always does when he hears it. Never knew him not to be up for one.

I made a couple of calls and within an hour, I had arranged to bunk with my old University of Kentucky roommate, Karl Blankenship, who was now a successful veterinarian in Goodlettsville, a suburb of Nashville, Tennessee, on the condition that I could finagle two 50-yard-line seats for Kentucky's New Year's Eve Music City Bowl game against Iowa at the stadium the NFL's Tennessee Titans call home.

"OK if I bring Ryder? I'll upgrade us to skybox alumni priority seats," I said.

"Red Label, what kind of veterinarian would I be if I turned away your dog," Karl said, using the nickname I hadn't heard in ages — a play on my surname, Walker, and the well-known scotch, Johnnie Walker. It comes in the premium black label and the more plebeian red label that was my preferred brand in college. Kentucky undergrads understand two things very well: great basketball and brown liquor.

Thanks to the generous, tax-deductible contributions I had sent Kentucky's loyalty foundation over several years since I had made partner at Gladney & Watson, I was able to get passes for a skybox on the visitors' side of the field, so we were set. I offered to get a ticket for Karl's wife, Marsha, but she was a Tennessee alumna who didn't give the slightest damn for Kentucky. She did, however, give Karl and ma a hall pass to attend what she dismissed as "y'all's cute little bowl game."

Knowing that I wouldn't have to spend New Year's Eve home alone pining for Kass at least gave me a diversion. Now I had to find a way to chew up the rest of the idle days until then.

Wilson Rush's rage-filled lecture to me in the corner office of Gladney & Watson's Cincinnati office managing partner kept replaying in my mind. I didn't agree with all he had said, but the points he made squared perfectly with the realities of my situation. I had to decide how best to accommodate those realities, and I had ruminated on them often since.

I was aware, at some level, that going rogue on Burnley and Ebenezer's Eyes was not something an elite, global firm that treasured its high-dollar image über alles would gladly condone, and that's why I paid Gene Fassbinder out of my own pocket. True, it wasn't a good thing to be running my own little operation out of my firm office using firm resources (minimal as they were), but Dano was my client. My failing was using my standing as a licensed member of the bar to grant Dano the legally durable protection of attorney-client privilege in hopes that he might lift the curtain, even slightly, into the anguish and fear that would literally drive him to his death hours later.

In my determination to uphold my duty to protect Dano's dying secret from the deceitful, thuggish predations of Mason Burnley—now likely facing life in prison—I had mired myself in this situation. A salutary indirect consequence, however, had been aligning my life's orbit with that Kass Felson, at least for a brief time, only to have the dreadful situation subsequently tear it asunder and cast me into dark despair.

I had committed no grievous trespass against the practice of law or my firm. No one had filed any ethics complaints against me with the bar. And even if I had been forced onto the stand as a prosecution witness in the United States v. Brewer et al, or the several state cases pending against him, Burnley and others, I am comfortable that I was on the side of decency and justice and history would judge favorably for it.

Boiled down to its essence, wasn't this whole thing a conflict between how much I should follow my heart and how much I should hue to the needs of a powerhouse multinational law firm? Gladney & Watson had, for several years, grown more concerned about its profile among the rich and powerful than the administration of justice. I knew that but had compartmentalized the troubling fact.

Now, I was beginning to step outside my own cocoon and get my first glimpse of my world as Kass saw it.

For an entire day, I debated within myself over next steps. The risks were enormous, and the consequences frightening.

Shortly after 10 a.m. on December 27th, I mustered the courage to place the call. My hand trembled as I heard the tones indicating that the phone at the other end of the line — in Danville, Kentucky — was ringing. She picked up after the third ring.

▼ ▼ ▼

The game started out poorly for Kentucky and went downhill. By halftime, as mistakes and half-hearted play gave Iowa a commanding 21-0 lead, Karl sat glumly in our nice, warm box staring onto the field below.

"To think we were ranked in the top five in the country three months ago," he groused.

Indeed, the Wildcats were undefeated and ranked among the handful of elites before being exposed in the fourth game, their Southeastern Conference opener at Ole Miss. Watching that game at a sports bar with Dano that September afternoon, I did not imagine that he would be dead in fewer than a dozen hours and my life would be forever changed by the bizarre tunnel I was about to be drawn into.

"Yeah but look at the bright side: it's basketball season," I said halfheartedly, quaffing my third beer of the half, secure in the knowledge that Karl was driving.

Karl rolled his eyes. The basketball Cats were 8-4 and had lost their Southeastern Conference opener against Missouri three days earlier. This hardly seemed like one of the blueblood bluegrass teams that Kentucky fans consider their birthright.

"Hey, maybe we got all the bad luck out of our system here. We play Louisville tonight at Rupp. What say we leave early if things don't turn round real soon and go home, drink a bunch of bourbon and ring in the new year totally shitfaced ... one more time ... for old times' sake."

Karl nodded. "Now you're talkin', Red."

We stopped at the largest liquor store with the most comprehensive selection of legal intoxicants I had ever seen. I purchased two bottles of Weller's, which is made by the same Kentucky distillery that makes the hard-to-find Pappy Van Winkle. We also stopped on the drive home at a Kroger's supermarket where I bought pans of sauteed green beans, garlic-and-butter mashed potatoes, and three thick ribeye steaks, giving Karl the treasured opportunity to exhibit his epicurean prowess on his gas grill when we got home, much to the satisfaction of Marsha Blankenship who didn't relish an evening in the kitchen.

We had finished dinner. The Kentucky basketball game was about to tip off. Karl, Marsha and I had feasted on ribeye and settled down on the sofa with Ryder snoozing by the roaring wood fire in Karl's fireplace (what is it about this dog and fireplaces?). He and I had a generous, neat pour of Weller's. Before the game started, however, I decided to take the initiative in the waning few hours of 2022 to text Kass. Just to wish her a happy new year. To let her know I'm thinking about her.

"Happy New Year, Kass. Missing you."

I read it and re-read it. Heart emoji? Too much? Too early? Redundant to what I'd already said?

Hell, just go for it, my conscience implored me. What's she going to do, hate me because I love her? I added the emoji and hit send. Let the chips fall where they might.

Then I willed myself to put the phone on the floor and out of sight now that the game had begun. Reluctantly, I got wrapped up in the flow of the rivalry with Louisville along with Karl as Marsha looked bemused. Her Tennessee Volunteers were in the unusual position of outranking one of basketball's true bluebloods, the Kentucky Wildcats.

I checked my phone at halftime. No reply. But it was only 8:30. I checked again in Karl's kitchen after the game ended and Kentucky had won going away. Still nothing. Now it was a little before 10. Somewhere out there was the woman of my past, of my future, of my dreams; the person I wanted more than anything to have in my arms as the 2022 calendar gave way to 2023 at midnight. I hoped she was among friends, as I was. But I also hoped against hope that she felt the same about me as I felt about her, that her arms longed to hold me as well.