King Size

by Lexi Whitlow

  He’s still trying to process it.

  “Daddy, I know you dislike Logan. I know you don’t approve of him. And I know that sooner or later I’m going to go full-time at the Legal Aid Network. So… if you want to keep the paternity case, I’ll tender my resignation…”

  “Oh, Bryn, don’t be ridiculous,” he says, dismissing the idea with a wave of his hand.

  He sits forward, fingers thumping on his desk, then he looks up, fixing his gaze on me.

  “I’m proud of you, kiddo. Setting up your own practice, that took balls. Getting funded, that took skill.”

  I’m astonished.

  “Your work here is great, and I have big plans for you, but if it’s not what you want to do, I’ll accept it. You decide when the time is right. I hope the day never comes, but we’ll work with it.”

  He’s talking to me like I’m an adult. This is, new territory.

  He hauls in a breath, then sinks back in his chair, a contrite expression biting him.

  “And it’s not that I disapprove of Logan Chandler,” he says, darkened eyes meeting mine with reservation. “It’s that I tried the case that ruined his father’s life, and when you were kids, I didn’t want you getting any blow-back from that.”

  This is news to me. I had no idea my father was involved. I wonder if Logan knows.

  Daddy shakes his head in recollection of something he’d clearly rather forget.

  “I was overly enthusiastic about that case,” he says. “I needed a big win to buy out my father’s senior partners and take over this firm. I gambled on it, and I won.” He fixes his gaze on me again, something guilty in his eyes. “But I cheated, and it destroyed the man’s life. And then he died, leaving those two kids without a father, and his wife to deal with the tragedy of it all by herself.”

  I feel a chill run up by spine.

  “What do you mean, you cheated?”

  There can be no legal consequences and my father knows it. Whatever happened occurred so long ago that all the statutes of limitations have long since passed, and the principle victim of any misconduct—the only one with standing to lodge a complaint—is long dead.

  “I had a witness,” he says. “The guy said he saw Drake Chandler, Sr. blowing back shots at a bar thirty minutes before the accident. Before the trial I learned there’s no way the guy could have seen any such thing, because at the time he was in police custody for public intoxication, after leaving a different bar on the other side of town. Counsel for the defense never caught it.”

  He relates this to me with the nonchalance of describing what he had for dinner last night.

  “The cop who performed Chandler’s roadside sobriety test managed to sway the jury with a load of contrived nonsense about eye-movements and slurred speech. That’s what we won on. Two bullshit testimonies. The blood alcohol test came back clean. I answered that in court by suggesting Chandler chugged a couple gallons of water to flush the alcohol from his system before the test. His lawyer didn’t even address the spurious science in my claim.”

  My father bites his lip, then sighs. “So, between cheating on my side and incompetence on Chandler’s side, the guy got railroaded. I got a fifty-million-dollar jury award for my client, twenty of which I kept, and Logan Chandler lost his father.”

  It’s me who needs to process things now. Everything I thought I knew about my dad has just been redefined.

  Daddy’s confessions aren’t quite over.

  “Charles was attempting to poach clients,” he says without prompting. “I got a call from one this weekend, letting me know. I suspect he’s up to something more than just hanging his own shingle. I have an idea that this paternity case against Logan may have something to do with it. He would know not to take a new business call. The fact that he was looking for the call, tells me he’s involved.”

  “He’s trying to hurt Logan,” I say, putting it together. “And probably me too.”

  My father’s brow folds again. “Why would he do that?”

  I tell my father about Charles’ long-standing jealousy of Logan, going back to high school, and how it escalated after Logan won the Powerball. In regard to myself, I simply say, “You should talk to HR.”

  “Okay,” he says, a brow raising. “And what am I going to learn from HR?”

  Since we’re suddenly over-flowing with honesty, I decide to state the facts.

  “You’ll learn that every bit of this could have been avoided if the women in this company felt secure in their positions, even if dropping a dime on a partner-track favorite of the boss. The last girl that did that, got fired. They couldn’t fire me because I’m your daughter, but they sure as shit didn’t fix anything. No consequences for Charles, and as far as I know, up until Friday afternoon, he was still demanding blow jobs from the juniors in exchange for pro-bono cases.”

  Daddy’s eyes narrow. “You reported this to HR?”

  I nod.

  “Why not come directly to me?”

  I smile coolly at him, as if I’m facing opposing counsel. “Because we had a talk about the proper chain of command, remember that? I went by the book, and when nothing changed, I wrote a grant application to get me out of this toxic work environment.”

  It all dawns on my dad in that instant, he’s the one who empowered Charles to abuse his position, and then he protected Charles, even while Charles was going behind his back, attempting to poach clients.

  Humility looks good on him.

  “You have a lot to do,” I say. “I won’t keep you from it any longer. I’ve got no more revelations.”

  I excuse myself, letting my father get back to beating himself up, which I hope he does for at least a half-hour. This is after all, his law firm. The buck stops with him, or at least it ought to.

  * * *

  Just when I think my day can’t get any worse, Claire pings my messenger with an attachment and the text, See this. Boyfriend troubles.

  I launch the attachment. It’s an AP Wire story claiming that at least three women and perhaps more have filed suit against Logan Chandler in district court, claiming paternity of their children, suing for support and other damages.

  It’s at least four women. What the hell? Is everything I think I know about every man in my life a delusion? Are all men essentially self-serving assholes?

  Chapter 18

  Logan

  Bryn is ditching my calls. Her work number goes to voicemail, and her admin is making excuses for her. As if that’s not enough to have me spinning like a top, I got a call from Tim Dunigan at the firm in D.C. first thing this morning telling me he’s getting on a plane to come see me. All he would say is, “We have issues popping up that I need to go over with you in person.”

  It’s got to be bad—really bad—if he’s flying to Raleigh on a Tuesday.

  When he arrives, it’s obvious he’s troubled. He lifts his suitcase to the kitchen counter and unzips it, revealing at least twenty—maybe more—legal case files.

  “I warned you this was coming,” he says, piling the files on the counter, then spreading them out. “In the last ten days this is what we’ve gotten. One complaint after another. Most of them are spurious at best, malicious at worst, but there are a few that are going to plague us.”

  Okay.

  Tim lifts one of the files, opening it. “Tell me about a woman named Samantha Benjamin from Columbus, Ohio.”

  Jesus. That’s going way back.

  “College,” I say. “She was a Buckeye Booster; the team fan club. We dated briefly my junior year, ‘til it got weird.”

  Tim nods. “Define weird.”

  “I don’t know. Fans… they get clingy, possessive. She started talking about getting married. I was a junior in college. I think we went out for maybe two weeks during the spring semester.”

  “Did you sleep with her?”

  Where is this going?

  “Yeah, a couple times. Tim what is this?”

  He lifts the case file up, looking for something. Findin
g it, he shows it to me. It’s a photo of a little boy.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “That is not possible.”

  “She’s asking for a paternity test to compare to the DNA sample she got on the kid. They don’t do that unless they’re sure.”

  No way. I inspect the photograph of the boy. He looks nothing like me.

  “When was he born?” I ask Tim.

  “February 17, five years ago,” he replies.

  I count it down, then shake my head again. “No. We broke up before Spring Break—in April. She was pissed about it. She wanted me to bring her home to meet my Mom and I wouldn’t. It’s one of the things that brought on the split in the first place. The timing doesn’t work.”

  “You better hope you’re right.” Tim says, sliding the case file to the far end of the counter. He lifts another, inspecting the cover page. “Amanda Taylor, Dayton, Ohio.”

  I shake my head. “Never heard of her.”

  “She claims she was a stripper at a club you and the team used to frequent in Cincinnati,” Tim says, and he doesn’t sound particularly pleased about it. “She claims she did extracurricular activities for a few favorites. She says you got her pregnant, and when she told you about it, you threatened her. Two weeks later you got sidelined at the Cotton Bowl, and she figured she’d leave you alone. She felt sorry for you.”

  “Except that can’t possibly be true,” I say. “On a couple of verifiable points. First, I’ve never been to a strip club in Cincinnati. The only strip club I’ve ever been in is one in Louisville, Kentucky that a recruiter took me and a couple other guys to when I was still in high school. That pretty much sealed my opinion of the recruiter and the school he represented. The second is that it was common knowledge that I did not date—at all, with zero exceptions—during regular season, playoffs, or bowls. It’s distracting enough being the guy carrying the team without girlfriend drama. It was a rule I never broke. Every guy on every team, every season, will back me up on it, along with every coach and trainer. I caught some serious shit for it from time-to-time.”

  Tim softens his expression. He takes a breath, sliding that file to the side. He lifts another, finding the name.

  “Jessica Turner, Raleigh, North Carolina?”

  Ouch. Starfish girl from the back of my Camaro. I used protection.

  “Details?” I ask.

  “She works at a poolhall called Pantana Bob’s…”

  “I know where she works,” I say. “Details on the kid. I’m assuming she’s claiming the same shit?”

  “Oh… ummm… Jason. Two years old, born…”

  “Yeah, not mine. I screwed her in the back seat of my Camaro once, about eight months ago, wrapped. Unless little Jason is a rapidly aging time traveler, she’s full of shit.”

  We go through three more just like these; all bullshit.

  “What’s the play here?” I ask. “The kids are not mine. I can prove it. Why would they even do this?”

  Tim points to the remaining stack of files. “All of this is the work of one diligent attorney who’s apparently scouring the globe looking for people to come after you. I’ve got people saying you borrowed money from them. I have a guy claiming to be your gay lover, threatening to out you if you don’t give him a million dollars.”

  What?

  “And this guy, this Charles Pearson, it looks like he’s just getting warmed up. There’s an endless supply…”

  “Charles Pearson?!” I exclaim. “You’re fucking joking?”

  “You know him?” Tim asks, his face blanching.

  “Oh yeah, I know him,” I say, sitting down before my titanium knees fail me. “Fucking hell. This is personal.”

  “Explain,” Tim insists. “How?”

  I lay it all out for him, from high school through fuck-off at the garage with Bryn before the lottery, as well as the fact that he practices at the firm where Bryn works.

  “Bryn doesn’t say much about him, but I know they don’t get along. He had a crush on her all through high school. She never gave him the time of day.”

  “And now you’re dating her?”

  I nod.

  Tim considers everything I’ve said. He brightens a bit.

  “Okay. Well, I’m going to start making some calls to get rid of these paternity suits first.”

  What an incredible pain in my ass.

  “I’ll answer all of these if we have to. It’ll take months and an army of staff to take them all apart. I need you to keep your head down. Stay out of the way of the crazies, get your groceries delivered in, and if this guy Charles Pearson contacts you or your girlfriend directly, I want to know about it, yesterday.”

  “All of this is bullshit,” I remind Tim. “None of this will hold up. Why is he doing this? It’ll cost him a fortune.”

  Tim shakes his head. “Filing a lawsuit costs very little,” he says. “Defending it, taking it to trial costs. Opposing it costs you. He’s counting on courthouse fatigue. He’s counting on us getting sick of it, and coming to him with an offer to stop.”

  Shit.

  “Usually guys like this are looking for a couple million,” Tim says. “In his case, I suspect he’s got more ambition than that.”

  Holy shit.

  “What do we do?”

  Tim smiles. “I’m going to start with his employer and go from there. He’s not doing any of this under the title of a law firm, but their reputation is impugned, none-the-less. After that—assuming you don’t want to give this creep money—I’m going to prepare a legal misconduct brief. We’ll go to the bar association after his license to practice, and then a judge to have all these dismissed en masse.”

  “You can do that?”

  He nods. “It’s a process. It’ll take a long time. But yes, we can do that. As your attorney, that’s what I’d advise. Otherwise, more like him will come crawling out the cracks with the same ploy.”

  Jesus, it never ends.

  * * *

  I’m sitting in the dark with a glass of whiskey, contemplating the problems having money causes, when my phone rings. I look down. It’s Bryn.

  Two days. She’s been avoiding me for two days. I sip my whiskey, then answer, expecting her to tell me that she’s been thinking and we should just be friends.

  “Are you home?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Can I come over?”

  She doesn’t want to do it over the phone. That’s very upstanding of her.

  “Just say it, Bryn,” I tell her. “You can even text it. I don’t care. Just put me out of my misery.”

  “Have you been drinking?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I state soberly. “I have been drinking. And I plan on continuing in that endeavor until I reach the bottom of the bottle, or fall asleep, whichever comes first.”

  “I’m coming over,” Bryn says.

  “Just don’t. If you’re going to dump me, just do it and be done with it.”

  There’s a long, uncomfortable pause before I hear the tinkle of Bryn’s laughter on the other end of the line.

  “Is that what this is?” she asks. “You think I’m breaking up with you?”

  She’s laughing at me. Bryn Beckett is always laughing at me. Whether I’m sleeping or awake, she laughs at me.

  “Isn’t it?” I say. “You’ve been dodging me for two days. Your admin feels sorry for me. She’s a shitty liar, by the way.”

  “Oh, Logan, you’re so pitiful when you’re drunk and sad. But don’t be sad,” she says. “I’m not breaking up with you. I was covering my ass until we resolved a conflict of interest issue between you and a case that came in yesterday. Plus, it’s been a zoo here at work. Charles resigned—got fired actually—and we’re upside down dealing with the mess he made.”

  Wait. What?

  “Charles got fired?” I ask, sitting up, trying to clear my swimming head. “Say that again.”

  “Technically, he resigned,” she says. “But that was to avoid getting drop-kicked ou
t the door.”

  “Why?”

  “Poaching clients,” Bryn replies. “And for being an unchecked asshole.”

  I should call Tim.

  “Your lawyer, Tim Dunigan, had a long meeting with my father and a couple of his senior partners today.” Bryn says. “Very cloak and dagger. Very hush-hush.”

  No need to call Tim.

  “Yeah, he said he was going to do that,” I recall. This morning is a bit hazy to me now.

  “So, can I come over?”

  I look at my watch. I can barely focus on it. It’s only 9:30 and I’m thoroughly drunk.

  “I’m not going to be much fun,” I say. “One more drink, and I’m done.”

  “Why don’t you skip the last drink?” Bryn asks. Her tone is sweet, which I find hilarious.

  “Where’s the nihilistic fun in that?” I ask. “Don’t you know that wallowing, self-destructive, alcohol inspired, downward spirals run in my family? I gotta live up to all the high expectations everyone has for me. I mean seriously, if you knew how many people thought ill of me, you might just get on the bandwagon of lawsuits too. You could probably make a legit case. I mean, at least when we screwed the condom really broke. I might…”

  “What did you say?” Bryn sings, interrupting my meandering, drunken, ramble.

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? Yeah. The condom broke. Sorry. So… sue me. Lots of people are already. The attorneys are all over it.”

  Another long silence.

  “You know, I was thinking about taking another trip to get the hell away from all this crazy shit. You want to go with me to the Bahamas or something?”

  “I’m on my way over,” Bryn says. “Stay awake long enough to open the gate.”

  “Not necessary…”

  “Shut up, Logan. Get up. Put on a pot of coffee. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “You’re so bossy,” I say. “I like it, but sometimes…”

  “Logan, go put on some coffee, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

  When the gate buzzes, I’m leaning on the counter, glassy-eyed, weaving, nursing a cup of coffee, trying to focus. I hit the button to let her in, then walk down to open the door, trying hard not to get lost in the maze of my own house.