MANVIL

I knew I could catch President Davis at lunch because his writeup in the school’s alumni bulletin mentioned that he enjoyed having lunch at home. So I found myself at the front door to a house almost as lavish as my grandparents’ home, and I knocked on the door. His assistant came to welcome me, and I let her know who I was, and I gave a brief description about the business I was tending to. She led me to Dr. Davis anyway.

A short, solidly built man, with a balding head and a poorly tended comb-over, Davis’s tenure at The Goode School had brought significant growth and recognition. Many generations of successful alumni tripped over themselves to support the school in its scholastic and sports endeavors. Davis and his wife were another hugely popular part of the islands, and as a team they were perhaps the most adept and cunning political machine the island would ever know. All their actions served one purpose, the betterment and supremacy of The Goode School over all schools in the islands. If you were the admissions director for any top 100 college, university or institute, and you couldn’t speak highly of the graduates of The Goode School, Peter and Maureen “Morty” Davis would take it as a personal affront. To this day, their presence looms large over the school’s lush green grounds.

I followed Davis’s assistant through the high ceilinged, mahogany floored halls of the presidential home, with its airy hallways and naturally lit rooms. I envisioned walking into a colonial style dining room replete with white linen and crystal, as I had so many times at my family home. So it came as a surprise that Dr. Davis was dining in his own kitchen, on a stool, eating a sandwich of his own making. His similarly brilliant and politically astute wife Morty was at his side, eating breakfast cereal from a bowl. They were both reviewing paperwork as they noshed, with bifocals low on each other’s noses. I waited in the hall as his assistant forewarned them of my arrival.

Introductions were unnecessary, as the good doctor and his wife recalled my face from my early days at school. His photographic memory, my family’s history with the islands, and The Goode School made for an easy greeting. There had also been several recent and spurious articles written about me by the local paper. Those articles, written by a band of gossip hounds, sycophants, and sweet talkers who were known to stretch the truth for column space, had done little but publicize the firm’s name. I have enjoyed myself earnestly and often. And whether I am judged correctly or in prejudice, I have learned that no one really knows, or for that matter should know, the whole truth. Any press is good press. And if anybody would know that, it was these two.

I thanked the Davises for their graciousness in taking my unannounced visit and explained the situation. As expected, they professed sincere concern at my description of the railroading I thought Mark Nicholson was being subjected to. They also appeared surprised when I told them who I believed was the real thief of Louise Sinclair’s stash to be, and acted as though they were otherwise oblivious to the situation. I knew better. If Peter Davis didn’t know what was going on in the lives of such notable and prominent students, Morty Davis did. Together, their fingers knew the very pulse of the school. Any incidents that drew the attention of any administrator, including Bill Constanopolis, were relayed to the president immediately. And they were dealt with similarly.

As they sat, I continued standing and rested my bum against the counter next to the double kitchen sink. We began talking about the school’s response to the issue and its ramifications to all involved. I reached for my Rothmanns, and the ever gracious Morty slipped a large crystal ashtray from one of the cabinets, placed it next to me and returned to her husband’s side. As I lit the cigarette, I let them know that on a community level, they had a great deal to think about. I was telling them something they obviously already knew, but they feigned concern. I took a large draw from my cigarette and began going over the situation as I saw it.

“Nearly all of Tinny Gleason’s family has gone to The Goode School. I went to the semis with his uncles Kenny and Bruce. They’re a Goode School legacy family. They’ve been reliable and generous donors. The brothers’ albums have sold well and they continue to.” I reached my smoke down to the crystal and flicked the ashes in the faceted oval while I watched both of them take in my performance. “I think it would be a hard pill for the family to swallow if there were any publicly revealed responses to Tinny’s transgressions.” I emphasized ‘publicly revealed’ by bobbing my head and making a small hand gesture as I said it. “Such information might certainly be a small blight on the Gleason reputation in the entertainment community.”

I cleared my throat quietly and took another drag, focusing my thoughts. “Mark Nicholson, on the other hand, is the son of a quiet, yet mildly successful professor at the university. He’s seen a lot of hardship over the last two years, as has his father Bill.” They both nodded in sad agreement, still nibbling at their food and occasionally taking sips of juice. I continued, “Albeit not a stellar student, and certainly not one of the The Goode School’s most shining examples,” I shrugged subtly and waving my hand slightly for effect, “he’s innocent, and needs to be in school.” In the slight pause I moved to the other side of the kitchen sink and continued assessing their reaction.

Both the Davises quickly darted glances towards the paperwork on the counter that I was getting closer to. I slowly rolled a look at a re-sealable manila inter-office envelope that was lying by the fridge next to the milk that sat out. On it were written destinations to offices around the campus. The firm uses the same type of envelope all the time. The top six destinations had been crossed out with indelible markers. The only plainly visible line read, “Dr. Davis/Disciplinary Committee.” The line above it, though, scribbled out ineffectually with a ballpoint pen, displayed the previous recipient. It read, “Bill Constanopolis.” I smiled as my mind followed the chain of delivery. I turned my head back to the Davises, who realized that the gig was up. I took the last long, luxurious drag off my Rothmann while smiling at the gift that fate had dropped on my lap.

As I lightly tapped the half smoked cigarette into the crystal, I began my summation with new confidence. My eyebrows rose, and I couldn’t help but smile as I began. “I suppose this brings us to the only student who actually admitted to a breach of the school rules.” I began to subtly bite my cheek to suppress smiling openly. “Marijuana possession is hardly a capitol offense, but it does buck The Goode School rules. Offenders are subject to immediate dismissal. We all know Ranier Sinclair has done well in hotels and other ventures around the islands. He continues to do great things for the island community, and our national pride as a whole.” I paused, half-formulating response, and half for effect, “We know that although Sinclair didn’t attend school here, that four of his kids, including Louise, are long-standing students. Several of which have been athletes of some note.”

I paused again and continued, “We also know that the school takes a very serious stance on the use and possession of drugs.” My mind raced to formulate a path of easy resolution. “If certain indiscretions were left unmentioned, and certain activities were strongly,” deep inhale for tension, “advised against in the future, I’d imagine a firm and generous donation to the sports center endowment would go a long way towards removing the bitter taste of youthful indiscretion.” I paused briefly to gain eye contact and judge their reaction. To hammer my point home, I offered an alternative course of action, one that wouldn’t read so well for the school in the black and white of the island’s gossip-filled press. “If the school did chose to pursue the path of investigation and subsequent disciplinary action, the public, as well as the press, would surely find out about this absurd caper,” slight pause, “and nobody would be well-served. Excepting, of course, the lawyers.” I smiled, leaned my bum against their counter and lit another smoke. I crossed my arms over my belly and warily prepared myself for their reaction.

Peter Davis took the bifocals off his nose and rested them in his hands as he crossed his arms on the table. He remained silent and craned his neck to over his shoulder to his wife and confidant. She looked at him and tipped her head to the side ever so slightly. He looked back to me with a concerned look and asked, “Can Morty and I have a moment alone in order to talk things over?”

“Surely!” I said, nodding my head and grabbing the ashtray on my way out to the hall. I didn’t have to wait long. I had always heard that they were a great team together, and they were. Efficient, wise and fair, they helped to provide rapid resolution to my case.

I left the president’s home on Whistler’s Hill with a handshake and the promise that as far as The Goode School was concerned, Mark Nicholson would return to school Monday morning as if nothing had happened. That response was good enough for me, and I believed that it would serve the Nicholsons similarly well. When I got back to the office, I had Rebecca make the call to Bill Nicholson. Hers was a better conversational voice for him, and I was leaving for the club anyway. She let me know later that night that he was ecstatic, and relieved to hear the good news. She later mentioned that he did have questions about the speed of the resolution. She told him that he didn’t need to know how such things worked out, just that they did. And that little bit of magic, well, that was my job.

Sometime later, months after the Nicholson check had been cashed, I noted while reading the morning paper on Rebecca’s porch that construction for the new Ranier S. Sinclair Sports Center was to break ground in a very public service. Oddly enough, The Goode School had been given an enormous, tax-deductible donation from the Sinclair Corporation as a display of unyielding support and appreciation for the school, its sports program and scholastic integrity. In an oddly similar story on the Arts and Entertainment page, the Gleason Brothers were holding an Goode School alumni fundraiser at the amphitheater to gather donations for the replacement of the now outdated and obsolescent G.S. Keates II pool. How serendipitous, I’ll save the date.

And that’s what happened.

Sincerely,
Gordon S. “Stumpy” Keates III, Esquire

Thanks again to MANVIL for the opportuntiy to use the space.

For any school as organized and well laid out as The Goode School, if you want to find out what a kid looks like, you approach the librarians. And part of a librarian’s nature is to want to know things. This library was no exception. I was directed towards the office of the head librarian by her staff; and as I entered, I recalled another part of a librarian’s nature, to be helpful. When I asked the diminutive, skirt clad Ms. Chun what Woody Lynnfoote looked like, she not only had a picture of him on file, she had a suggestion as well. “Why don’t you see for yourself? He should be in study hall right now, and he adores history!” She absolutely lit up when she said that. It was the kind of bright cheerfulness I couldn’t recall having ever known from a librarian as a kid. Then again, wildly-colored polyester skirts hadn’t come on the market when I was a kid, and Ms. Chun’s garb looked like a fiery explosion in a crayon factory

We stepped out of her office, and she led me through the expanse of the entry toward the history shelves. As I followed behind her, I began to notice that her body changed as she came into view of all the kids. She seemed to stoop a little, her shoulders rounded. Her face soured, and her voice, light and airy as we chatted in the office, became sharp, crisp and demanding as she asked other students where Lynnfoote was. As we closed in on the lad’s location, I could see a mop of blonde hair behind a large book with a dark, embossed binding. The once airy Chun seemed to hiss at the boy. “Woody, this man is here to see you about last week’s detention.” He stood upright from the bench, put the book down, and addressed me formally with a handshake, which made me uncomfortable. He seemed to be addressing his prosecution, and that wasn’t why I was here.

I smiled and clasped my hands together, facing the boy while rolling back on my heels. I turned my head. “I’ll take it from here, Ms Chun. Thank you.”

“Oh, you’re welcome. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help,” she said, returning to the light and airy voice I knew from her office. She made her way back to her cube.

As she did, I turned to Woody Lynnfoote opening my palms. As an icebreaker I tossed up a grapefruit of a question: “Woody, I’m not here about detention really. I’m just curious. Why were you late to study hall last Tuesday?”

For a kid just dressed down by a sherbet-covered, schizophrenic troll while being questioned by a heavy-set, tall guy with tired eyes and a loose fitting collared shirt, Woody Lynnfoote wasted no time explaining his terms. “I don’t want to stay in the library. I’ll show you what happened Tuesday morning, but I don’t want to stay in the library.”

I straightened up a bit to reclaim adult stature and reviewed the kid’s blonde head, furrowed brow and concerned look. Apparently he knew something I wanted to know, or so he thought. “Okay, kid, let’s hear it,” I said, pointing a thumb over my shoulder towards the door. It seemed that I was almost more eager to leave the library than young Lynnfoote. It didn’t hurt that I had seen Ms. Chun’s metamorphosis from happy butterfly to steely-eyed, slouching dragon lady. He returned his book to the shelves as I explained to Ms. Chun’s assistants at the checkout that I needed to talk to the lad about his university scholarship. They bustled with excitement as they bought the lie, and we left for the top floor of the building.

As we walked up the wide steps to his locker on the top level of the building, I explained the situation with Mark Nicholson to Woody, and he listened attentively to how the game had played out so far. He let out a chuckle and interrupted when I got to the part about Louise Sinclair’s small amount of pot. “First off”, he said, with some conviction, “Mark didn’t take anything. He wasn’t near Louise’s locker that morning, but I do know who was.” He paused, seemingly for effect, and continued, “And I’m not so sure I’d consider it a small amount of pot. She had a foot long, four-inch wide, Hello Kitty pencil box jammed full of reefer as thick as my middle finger.” For presentation, the kid deserved an award. I stood there slack jawed and wide-eyed, mid step for a good few seconds. In my mind’s eye I imagined a moon-faced kitty festooned box of ganja in a Givenchy handbag.

“Bingo!” I thought. Now all I needed were details, and young Woody Lynnfoote, in his bright red Izod terrycloth shirt, corduroys and dock shoes might have they all locked away in his head.“Start from the beginning. Where did your day start, Woody?” I asked as we got to the top floor of the donut pile building.

He began as he was leaving homeroom late to attend study hall. I lit up a smoke and listened attentively. “I came around the corner late from Mr. Oldreg’s homeroom at about 8:35 and went straight to my locker, here.” At that, he pointed at one of a wall-full of maybe a hundred, foot tall by a foot wide brown cubes with identical black and white combination locks on them. He pointed to his locker on the middle level. “I noticed two guys looking into Louise Sinclair’s locker. The lock was broken, and they were going through her books and stuff.” As he pointed to where he said the other two boys were, sure enough, there was no lock on one of the bottom row lockers.

“The halls were deserted, like they are now, and both guys looked at me a little weird. One of them was Tinny Gleason. I know that, but he was with some other kid who doesn’t go here. They were kind of quiet for a while. Then Tinny asked if I wanted any reefer. He offered me a box of white things that looked like large cigarettes.” He paused briefly, “They were about as thick as my middle finger and about three inches long.” He paused for a second to recheck the diameter of his middle finger. “Yeah, about this wide.” I asked him to go on as he innocently showed me his finger. He shrugged as he continued. “I told them pot was bad for them, and took off to study hall knowing that I was late.”

He waited for a bit to continue, and I asked him if he was sure he knew the boys who had broken into the locker. “Yeah. Tinny Gleason owns one of those new walkmen. They’re pretty cool, but they’re expensive! His family is pretty famous for their island music. And my mum loves his uncle’s new album.” I decided that he knew the right Tinny Gleason. The Gleason Brother’s albums were well received locally, and young Tinny’s third oldest brother Colin had once hired the firm to get rid of a speeding ticket for him. The Gleasons were a large, well historied old-island entertainment family. As happens often with prominence, the new generation was a batch of rascals. I was surprised that nobody at the school had put two and two together. High roller families seem to roll off the straight path in the same circle. Just ask my folks.

I asked Woody to continue to retrace his steps towards study hall and we wandered the halls of the circular Rooke Hall chatting about school, sports and the surf. For a somewhat nondescript toe-headed boy, Woody had an affinity for the ocean, which is not surprising being that he lived on an island. He told me how he’d arrived late to study hall due to leaving homeroom late and fussing around with the Gleason boy and his un-named friend. We walked the circuitous route he took to avoid being caught by hall monitors. He also told about his disruptive behavior at study hall, which didn’t seem all that disruptive to me.

He then explained his trip to the principal’s office, which seemed like the culmination of the tale. “I signed in, went into the office, and Mr. Constanopolis was on the phone talking about the new sports center. I stood there until Mr Constanopolis told me to sit. Then I sat and waited until Louise Sinclair busted in with the clipboard in hand. She totally interrupted Mr. Constanopolis’s call, practically yelling that Mark Nicholson had stolen her dope.” He paused so I could take what he’d said in, which was good, because it was a lot to take in. ”Once Mr. Constanopolis heard what she said, I started to giggle, because it was crazy.” The young Lynnfoote looked at me with wide eyes, arms outstretched “I mean, who tells the principal their dope’s been stolen? It’s crazy!” Searching my face for a response other than my curious look, he continued, “So Mr. Constanopolis looks at me, then he looks at Louise, then he looks back at me, and he says on the phone ‘Peter, I think I’ve got a situation that might help. I’ll call you back.’ Then he tells me to go wait outside his door, and he tells Louise to sit down at his desk. Three minutes later Louise comes outside to wait with me. A bit later he called his secretary on the intercom and asked her to get Dr. Davis on the line for him.”

Young Woody went on for about three minutes more as he explained the rest of the morning’s events as he knew them, but my next two leads were set. If Constanopolis had been talking about the hypothetical new sports center with school president Peter Davis, then that was a lead, and a very good one. It also seemed like a visit to the Sinclair residence was a definite necessity as well.

“Am I going to be in any trouble?” he asked earnestly.

“I rather doubt that, but keep this to yourself.” I shrugged and smirked a little, “You know, you can tell your folks, but I think that’d just complicate things.” I handed him a ten spot, while reaching for my smokes. He peered at the money for a moment, and pocketed it hastily. “Take it easy Woody, and try to make study hall a less memorable event.”

I turned on a heel as the bell for lunch rang, and narrowly avoided a surge of 750 7^th and 8^th grade students as they bolted from the classrooms towards the cafeteria 700 yards across a grass covered field away. Woody Lynnfoote wandered slowly away from me amongst the rush until he took off to catch up with some friends and slowed when he caught them. He continued walking with them until I lost sight of him in the crowd. Constanopolis was right: He was a smart little bastard, and I almost bet he’d put as much together about the case as I had.

I didn’t want to have to deal with parking again, so I pulled a Rothmann and began my walk towards the house on the hill residence of Dr. Peter Davis, storied president of The Goode School, and quite possibly the future overseer of one of the finest high-school sports facilities in the nation.

I walked through the Alfred G. Neigh units, where grades one through four were taught, and kept looking for ashtrays. I eventually ended up snuffing my butt on a rock wall and throwing it in a toilet that looked to be used by Lilliputians. The small classrooms and curious layout almost got me lost, but I was finally able to regain my bearings as I came to an open roofed square near the grade school office. I continued through the maze of classrooms until I got to the bottom of Whistler’s Hill, base of the president’s sprawling home. I ascended the steep staircase slowly, feeling my face flush as I did. I should have driven.

Thanks again to the staff at MANVIL for letting me prattle on about this page in my firms history.

The day after my meeting with the Nicholson boys, instead of heading to the office, I drove to The Goode School after breakfast. The landscape of tightly spaced, single wall constructed housing units with smaller yards and chain-linked driveways eventually gives way to the multi-level dwellings owned and reserved for the nearby national universities’ student housing. As you cross one very long block, the university housing comes to an abrupt stop, and all one can see from the road is a flora-covered wall interrupted intermittently by security entrances. Even today, The Goode School itself remains an enormous, and expanding compound surrounded by a stone wall draped with pretty but prickly plants that were chosen through no accident. Lush, green and beautiful to look at, but painful if approached without caution, the plants are a kind of natural concertina wire that blooms at night. Those plants do a lot to keep the uninitiated out, while allowing the students to escape with little hindrance.

As I turned the Rover towards the first entrance gate, I recalled my own frequent travails over that wall with any multitude of friends, including Gleise, Plipbst and Forsythe. We’d slip over the plants and huff it down to the bowling alley for fresh saimin noodles, a Coke and several rounds of ten pin between classes or instead of PE. My memories of the conservative-minded Goode School still intact, it confounded me why or how the administration could have become such a bunch of tight asses. It seemed absurd to me that after a little ado with a little pot, the Nicholsons should have to be hunting for the services of my firm. It was a heavyhanded response to a petty incident.

The reason I get stuck with cases this trivial and confounding is easy to understand. In a firm with 35 hard-driven corporate, maritime, and property lawyers doing casework that I still find dreadfully boring and tedious, it’s nice to be a legacy. My interest wanes easily, I can’t stand minutiae, and tedium gets in the way of living. Small cases are entertaining to me, and something long and drawn out rapidly becomes a burden I’m not interested in pursuing. I prefer my free time living by the often-misguided intentions that I have always held as a sacred rite. My liquor cabinet appears, often enough, to runneth over with libations that I have called as my sword and cipher. That, and for some reason, sometimes I get pretty lucky.

After finally finding public parking near the administration office, I wandered my way around the scenic campus. It had a multitude of beautiful grass fields spotted with large trees and pruned hedges, elaborate swing sets, battered soccer goals, basketball courts with crisp white nets on all hoops. Well-kept buildings edged the fields on all sides, and I walked and walked until I found the building Mark Nicholson told me to look for, Rooke Hall. A recent addition, it was supposedly shaped like a volcano to represent the ever-expanding mass of the school youth’s knowledge. Zeitgeist aside, it looked more like four crudely stacked old-fashioned donuts.

The building was awash in every shape, color and form of kid imaginable when I arrived. There were hundreds of them wandering the halls, chatting with friends, comparing notes, and generally being 7^th and 8^th graders. When the bell rang, though, the kids took off like they were rabid dogs roaming the halls. I looked at my Submariner. It was five ‘till eleven. Occasionally, a kid would sprint from one room to another; but at eleven sharp, the second bell went off, and the only movements visible were made by teachers and hall monitors.

Without the deluge of kids filling the halls, the principal’s office was easy to find. I walked through the glass doors and into the reception area with offices on either side of the greeting area. After asking for Bill Constanopolis, dean of students for the 7^th and 8^th grade, I sat, per his secretary’s request, just outside the dean’s office. I couldn’t help but feel empathy for Mark Nicholson as I lowered myself into the chair. It had been 35 years since I last sat waiting to see a principal at The Goode School. The thought was not a happy reminiscence. It meant I’d been caught in the midst of something, again. And who wants to remember that?

At about 5’10”, fit for his age, with a Brylcreem-wetted military haircut and a pronounced jawline, Bill Constanopolis might have made a foreboding image of authority figure to gangly Mark Nicholson. His gingham shirt, brown polyester pants and cheap loafers lost their effect on me, as I stand four inches taller and at least 70 pounds heavier. He shook hands well, was courteous and helpful in recounting briefly some of the details of the incident. As I followed him towards his office, he reached for a clipboard that was hanging by his door. He picked it up, turned to hand it to me, but he stopped as I reached to grasp the board. He smiled to himself, shaking his head, “Sorry, force of habit,” and he put the clipboard back on the hook by his door. It said ‘visitors log’ on it. He seemed to keep a pretty tight ship.

According to his logs, an apparent carryover from his days in the service, at 11:45 on a Tuesday the 16^th Louise Sinclair entered his office and explained to him that Mark Nicholson had stolen her marijuana cigarettes. His notes stated further that Nicholson was summarily removed from the cafeteria and assessed of the situation and its scholastic ramifications. Mark’s father had been called, and he removed his son from campus before the lunch break finished at one o’clock. I’d met with the Nicholsons at two that afternoon.

“What happened to Louise Sinclair? Was she disciplined similarly?” I asked, wryly smiling at the audacity of bringing any amount of pot on campus in the current political climate. “Oh, yes, she’s on administrative leave as well, until this is sorted out.” He nodded, adding quickly, “ She left at the end of the school day on Tuesday and has been gone ever since.” I appreciated his candor, and figured that’s how he saw it. What Constanopolis didn’t know is that the Sinclair Corporation had helped bankroll a film set to open in LA this very evening, the 18^th. According to neighbors of the family, whom Rebecca had talked to late last night, the producer, Gerald Sachs, had personally asked the Sinclairs to be at the Hollywood premier of “Kerrigan’s Wake,” and the entire family had been off island since the morning of the 17^th. Constanopolis didn’t need to know this, and Sinclair’s staff had quietly left it out.

Still curious about the fairness of being subject to the administration’s persecution, I asked, “Is the punishment for mere possession as severe as the punishment for Mark Nicholson?” I leaned back and reached for the pack of Rothmanns in my chest pocket so I could judge his response from behind a plume of seemingly uncaring objectivity. As I slid my smoke out and reached for my Zippo, Constanopolis was already lighting his Players and finishing with the flourish of a quick flick to extinguish his Ronson. Smoke escaped from his lips as he began to speak, as if he were trying to spit the answer out in Indian signals. “The school looks at theft as more of a damnable offense than possession. The actions taken by Mark were–”

“Not proven, just accused,” I interjected.

He leaned his head to the side, took another drag and exhaled. “The two of them were an item earlier this term; although apparently not anymore. And she thinks it was him. As you know, Ranier Sinclair is her father, and let’s just say Mark’s not coming from a position of sainthood.”

“Or standing” I thought to myself.

I knew what Constanopolis was getting at, but he wasn’t making progress swaying my opinion that young Mark was being railroaded. I continued looking around his office as he kept talking. I needed to find a witness who could provide a simple, reasonable alibi for Mark Nicholson. I remembered the sign-in sheet by the principal’s office.

After some time letting my mind race around his sparsely furnished office, I recognized that Constanopolis was about to finish his rambling about the relationship of the Sinclair girl and Mark Nicholson. I feigned attention until he’d finished, dumped my butt in his “Guam is Good” ashtray, shook his hand and asked if I could get a copy of his office registry for the morning of the 16^th. He gladly obliged, stating from memory that the only kid he’d seen that morning prior to Ms. Sinclair was a quiet, unremarkable 8^th grader named Woody Lynnfoote. As he recalled the kid, something in Constanopolis’s look caught my eye. I’d seen that look before, in both my exes’ faces, and on the faces of some of my former clients. It was the look of someone who realized that they had said more than they’d needed to. Constanopolis had apparently just been too smart for his own good.

He turned on his heel crisply to return to the confines of his office, while dredging his pack of Players from his pants pockets en route. As he left, I asked Constanopolis about Lynnefoote. He turned his head and blurted, “That boy’s got a good brain, but he never applies himself. This was his first visit to my office, ever.” He continued to the comfort of his office. and the door slowly shut behind him. It clicked like it had been pressed firmly; not a slam, but a focused, concentrated display of controlled force. According to the log, the Lynnfoote kid signed in a mere three minutes before the harried signature of Louise Sinclair. I’d need to talk to him; and if the schedules were right, he’d be heading to lunch soon. I intended to buy him his overcooked teri-chicken sandwich, but first I had to figure out what he looked like.

My client MANVIL lets me use this site to further my own ambitions and hair brained pursuits. Check them out, they’re good people.

Instant messaging in 1979 would have meant I was in the office, within earshot of Rebecca at the time of Nicholson’s frantic call. I’ve never lived comfortably with a schedule, so I wasn’t there. I prefer my mornings to begin when I say they begin. And in my line of work, for what I do and how I perform best, I try not to plan that far ahead. Within an hour or so of the Nicholsons’ call, Rebecca was able to chase me down to the Belbrae Terrace enjoying a chicken liver omelet, some refreshments and a coffee while reading the dailies. Roberto was kind enough to stretch the phone out to me as I knocked off the last of my second bloody and my third Rothmann. How she managed to find me with such ease after checking my several other usual morning haunts still strikes me as mystical and somewhat unearthly. I think her ability to foretell my actions is what made it so easy for me to make Rebecca Mrs. Keates IV, but that’s another tale for another time. All I knew was that I had a client meeting in several hours, and a very brief rundown of the situation at hand. I’ve already told you how that meeting worked out, what I missed was the preamble.

My father was a brilliant lawyer, but an even more adventurous businessman. He made his money in condoms in the late ‘40s as the baby boom was breaking into full stride. For pennies on the dollar his seemingly absurd and expensive purchases of factories in post-war Asia began making money to the extent that he was able to step away from my great-grandfather’s law firm. He and my mother left the family compound by the beach where I live now, and live very comfortably in the lush valley behind the Goode School.

The place in the valley was miles away from the riffraff of the nouveau riche hotel magnates, advertising reps, insurance men and international pornographers; so most of my parents’ brood of seven sporting, handsome children grew and moved on to greater things. Like light off the sparkle of their relationship reflected over seven continents, my older brothers and two very strong-willed sisters rapidly spread the globe over. Being last in line and far from interested in stirring the pot, I chose to get an education at a lesser school while not leaving the confines of the commonwealth’s protective influence. The law school by the Charles was not a big stretch for me, as I was a fourth generation, continuing legacy, but it was boring, and hot, and their sailing team was coached by an a-hole. I will say though, that they can drink there. They can drink like professionals. Like gentlemen. That’s where I learned, and I currently consider myself somewhat adept at it.

Rebecca’s sensible planning allowed me to make it from breakfast at the Terrace to the office after a quick chat with some of the old boys who were on the administrative board of The Goode School. I found Ben Forsythe, ‘Hotfoot’ Gleise, Jordie Plibpst and some mustachioed pommie bastard on the clay courts en route to the parking lot. Sun-browned, half nude and caked in sweaty dust, Forsythe and Plibpst were more than happy to take time out from their ‘friendly’ round to chat. By the looks of it, Gleise and the Brit were killing them.

Amid glasses of water, Forsythe and Plibpst stressed rather vehemently that the school regs looked unfavorably upon any drug use on campus. They assured me, with crossed fingers, that their kids surely wouldn’t know of such nefarious activities. A Sandhurst grad, intense, tall and with a shot of grey at his temples, Gleise seemed to break into a steely-eyed, cold sweat at the mere mention of drugs and booze on campus. He’d apparently forgotten the youth he’d shared with us entirely. Forsythe and Plibpst sort of held their grit-covered hands in the sky as a sign of admonition to a deity who wasn’t watching. It seemed ironic to me that the book-read scholar Nicholson would have his kid judged by the peers of the effete local social elite and an unsupported, sweaty junta.

I bid my old chums adieu, and wiped the clay off my loafers before trotting to the Rover, mindful of the time. I drove home, left the truck in the portico, kicked the morning’s paper through the front door, grabbed a shower, shaved, and dressed to be presentable. Opening the garage with the wall switch, I hopped in the Mercedes for the run back downtown, leaving a somewhat disconcerting plume of blue smoke behind. It took twenty minutes to get through island traffic, around the park and into the heart of downtown. Even then, after the lunch rush hour, things seemed to be busier than usual downtown.

I needed leads to build Nicholson’s defense for the board of The Goode School disciplinary committee, and Plibpst and Forsythe provided them easily. The disciplinary committee was a tripartite blend of arrogant narcissists with too much time on their hands, well meaning but easily swayed PTA mothers, and the old island guard I knew well, but as a childless bachelor could never be a part of. Thankfully, I could count on Plibpst and Forsythe to stall the hearing for a few days as they had ‘previous engagements’ which would take them off island for a few days. They’d be hunting wild turkeys at “Tats” Taylor’s estate, as they had every year since our freshman year. If Tats’ wife weren’t still pissed off about Mrs. Keates III and I, I’d probably be joining them.

Again, I give my thanks to MANVIL for the opportunity to press this cathartic tripe from my memory.

Bill Nicholson sat uneasily; distracted in a manner that was befitting a scholar in a bind. He surveyed my office wall hangings, the diplomas, the expensive artworks that my exes had purchased at charity auctions. His eyes roved over cabinets, curios and hardwood bowls won years ago when I gave a bigger shit about cricket, rugby and competitive sailing. We all just sat there; me in my chair surveying them, they in their’s surveying my stuff. Not a word was spoken. I enjoyed a nice draw off the Rothmann as I sat surveying at them, my eyes darting over the averted eyes of them both as they searched for something other than the subject at hand.

As I exhaled through the smoke, I spoke first and bluntly, “Bill, can you step outside and let me talk to Mark in order to out what the hell is going on?” Wide-eyed, Bill Nicholson got up quickly; seemingly glad to be verbally ushered out of the room, relieved to be recused of his responsibilities to his son. As the door slowly closed behind professor Nicholson, I heard Rebecca begin to chat him up about the weather and billing information. ‘Good girl,’ I thought, ‘let those sweater covered C-cups tame that confounded beast.’

It was only when the door closed solidly and the pin clicked completely shut that Mark Nicholson exhaled deeply and leaned back in his seat. Brushing his mop from his face, he said, in a serious, half pleading tone, “I didn’t do anything to Louise Sinclair’s weed. I was at P.E. all morning, and then I had to go to study hall. I didn’t do anything! I swear it on my mum’s grave.” His eyes welled and he dropped his hands to his lap. He looked straight towards the cream-carpeted floor with a still shaking head. I leaned back in my chair to gain perspective.

I hadn’t asked him anything about anything, much less anything about Louise Sinclair’s marijuana. He volunteered names and alibis. How tough could this be? I thought about the cast as I knew it.

I knew the Sinclairs, and a little bit about their daughter Louise. Ranier Sinclair was one of the island hotel magnates my mum couldn’t stand. He had a Midas-like touch for hotels and their placement that the visiting Japanese tourists loved and paid well for. His successful ventures speckled the islands like paisley on a Boston lawyer’s tie. Sinclair’s gambles brought him vast fortunes; and as such, he was well liked by all those he knew. He was active in eleemosynary pursuits, gave often and richly, and it seemed his second marriage was more a profile in successful teamwork than the tentative and faithless grab for wealth. Like several I’d known.

In all, Ranier Sinclair was a great asset to the community in which he lived. His step-daughter, Louise, was a 16-year-old party hound with a doting, but loving mother, and a step-father who could, and would, buy her out of every youthful transgression she’d ever face in life. After considering the situation, and discussing a bit more of the tale with Mark Nicholson over another Rothmann, I figured that the lad’s involvement in this affair was non-existent. To cover my bases, I thought I’d pay a visit to the Sinclair estate and perhaps to Ranier Sinclair’s corporate office. In a small community it’s always nice to flex the threat of concerned curiosity.

Young Nicholson and I talked more about the supposed theft of Louise Sinclair’s marijuana stash. And although I thought the school’s current policies swayed a bit to the right of national socialists, I didn’t think they’d go as far as to make something up out of the blue to sack a kid’s scholastic career. I had an idea what Mark was going through. Not the longhaired, disenfranchised and skinny part, but having been a fairly studied lagabout at The Goode School myself, I felt a kind of kinship with him. He was a kid who didn’t stick out, pro or con, and he was being cornered by an administration that preferred to label him early and harshly, rather that really learn who he was. I could empathize.

From a business standpoint, though, kinship and empathy doesn’t make a case work. A lawyer can like a losing client all he wants and never take his case for any multitude of reasons. One thing I did know about Mark Nicholson was that his mum had been dead since New Year’s Eve two years prior due to an asthma attack brought on by firework smoke. To me, his oath on his still freshly lost mum’s name wasn’t to be taken lightly.

Through the coconut wireless, I also knew that old Doc Nicholson had just done very well negotiating a deal to sell a Perth golf course to a Japanese consortium. Rebecca had checked Bill Nicholson’s finances and showed me his statement on a slip of paper. It looked for all the world like a local phone number. In a rare cooperative effort, my heart and my wallet wanted the case. I decided to take it.

The button on the squawk box clicked loudly, and I asked Rebecca to show Bill Nicholson back in. Moments later he entered my office somewhat sheepishly, realizing that he’d left in a hurried manner. I addressed him directly, occasionally pointing at his boy with the two fingers clenching the smoking Rothmann. “Bill, I don’t think Mark’s done anything,” I said, leaning both my hands on each other making a lazy, inverted ‘v’ on my desk. Nicholson looked awkwardly at the boy, almost apologetically.

Raising my eyebrows to show an air of uncaring I continued, “I’ll take Mark’s case, and I’ll straighten this out with The Goode School. All said, Mark’s gonna stay in the school. Your name’ll be kept out of the papers. Nothing will come of anything.” With a mild look of skepticism, Bill Nicholson looked to me and thought for a moment. He too raised an eyebrow and looked at his son, who was now looking a lot less frightful and a little more relaxed. Nicholson senior blurted while nodding his head, “Whatever you say, Mr. Keates,” followed by words I always have a laugh at when I hear them: “We trust you.”

“Not implicitly, I hope. I like my clients smart,” I replied, smiling wryly while snuffing my cigarette. We grinned to each other a little, the first smiles from either Nicholson I’d seen all day. Mark looked at us like we were quite possibly crackers.

As I lead them to the door, the mood appeared to lighten up between father and son. I was shaking Mark’s hand as I told both he and his father, “I’ll be contacting you soon to see what other information I can learn from you about this situation, but at this point I think I have enough to go on.” With that, they turned, waved a conciliatory goodbye to Rebecca and wandered down the hallway past the regular staff lawyers’ offices and through the lobby, searching all the while through their pockets for the parking voucher Rebecca had given them earlier. Academics, who can stand them, unless they’ve got deep pockets.

I’ll post more later when my client at MANVIL can deal with it. Next up, the investigation begins with drinks.

As I slipped under the awning bearing my great grandfather’s name, dressed in local business formal, an Aloha shirt and khakis, I smiled as Rebecca met me in the expanse of the greeting area. It’s easy for me to recall my father meeting his secretary Corallee the exact same way, all smiles and warmth. Except I rather doubt dad was screwing Corallee. She was sixty at the time. A post-war battle-axe, and built like a modern parking meter. Weird angles and a curiously flat head. She was, however, very efficient, and as kind and supportive to the entire family as any person I’ve ever known, including my ex-wives Mrs. Keates II and III. When dad left the firm, Corallee left with him. According to her Christmas cards, she’s now living quite comfortably in a retirement home in the state of Washington on the US mainland. Apparently she’s taken a lover, but I digress.

I chose to follow my father in this profession on account of my sharp wit, practical mind and lack of drive. It didn’t hurt that my last name is above the office door. My great-grandfather’s firm has had an office in these islands since before this chain was even a protectorate. His arrival to these balmy, palm-laced shores as the child of a missionary family predates the colonization of the islands. I often wonder if he’d recognize its current harbors brimming with gunboats and installations of well-dressed, well-armed, yet courteous troops, all lying in wait for an insurrection that the native islanders have grown too complacent and racially diverse to put into play.

Rebecca bought me a few minutes to sit, review her phone notes and find my ground as she got both Mr. Nicholson and his decidedly mop-headed boy a water and a parking voucher. Upon my arrival she’d also given me a tape to listen to. It was this morning’s recorded conversation with Doc Nicholson taken over the V-REC the firm had installed after the Paniolo Pines money mismanagement case. For a scholar of finances, the mild, bespectacled Bill Nicholson had a mouth on him like an enraged barrister. I listened to his clamor on a headset. I could hear Rebecca trying to guide his derailed train of conversation back on track. His rampant curse ladenned, stuttered and slurred diatribes against the school and the constant belittling of his son did little to inspire me to help him. Despite this, I eventually gave Rebecca the green light to let the two of them in.

The two Nicholsons entered the office quietly; the anxiety and anger of the long 15-minute drive of shamed arguing from their valley home to the office still lingered between the two of them. Young Mark Nicholson’s eyes were red and moist from rubbing and emotion. Both looked completely fatigued. They were frazzled to the point where comprehension was losing ground to either complete rage or, in Mark’s case, near exhaustion due to fear. I looked at the lad sitting rigidly upright across from me while quietly reaching into my desk for the pack of Rothmann’s I’d borrowed off Rebecca’s fridge. As I went to light up, Mark Nicholson’s eyes followed my hands. He didn’t fidget. He didn’t pose. He just sat as a witness to something out of his control. His brown Hang Ten tee hung from his snot and saline covered shoulders. The short sleeves stretched from use as a tissue. The shirt looked like a brown cotton sack on a scarecrow. He watched my fingers tap the Rothmann on my inkpad and then roll over the Zippo.

Details of this new case were blurred at first, but, apparently, the heat from the school administration was on young master Nicholson, and the school wanted blood for the wellbeing of their donors and reputation. There was mention of cannabis, the well-known ‘gateway’ drug, and the school just couldn’t be party to such things. The snips for cutting mediocre grapes out of The Goode School vineyard was being sharpened, and Mark Nicholson’s scholastic standing, as meager as it was, was on the block.

Bill Nicholson was a tenured professor of international banking at the university, and he was frantic when my secretary Rebecca had taken his call. He was circling the wagons in order to ensure that nobody got wind of the situation. He wanted this issue resolved as quickly and painlessly as possible, and he was doing his utmost to ensure that his scrawny son didn’t end up in a public school amongst the GP.

The islands were renowned for few things beyond beautiful, coral white beaches, good surfing, sugar cane production and unspoken racial tension. The public schools were a sad display of the populous’ despair over the country’s inability to provide for its people. Mark Nicholson’s release into this despair would surely drop him from the ranks of his well-heeled peers forever, and with him in this fall would be his father’s reputation at the commonwealth’s university. With little effort, and in her skilled, professional manner, Rebecca was able to get the very excited Mr. Nicholson calmed down by the time she had set up my appointment.

Coming up… the crime explained.

Many thanks to my client John Swanson at MANVIL, who allows me to use this space in order to lance my soul’s blisters of the injustices I have seen.