by James Ross
“Look what the cat brought in,” Julie said as Captain Jer came through the clubhouse door.
The retired airplane pilot remained mute. His disheveled appearance was a tip-off that he had over served himself once again the night before. As a functional alcoholic Captain Jerry Stafford was almost always seen with his good friend Dr. Everett Rhymes, a local veterinarian known as Dr. DV to the guys at Prairie Winds. But today was different. The pilot had a new face in his company.
“What’s wrong, does the cat have your tongue?” Julie pried.
Captain Jer had a mild look of disgust plastered across his face. He and Julie often shared banter but his mood didn’t appear willing to put up with anything remotely funny this morning. “I’d like for you to meet a good friend of mine,” he said.
“Where’s your sidekick?”
“Dr. DV?” Captain Jer inquired. “He’s parking the car.”
“Oh. I thought you might have a cab driver out as a guest,” Julie wisecracked.
“Ha. Ha. Ha. Very funny,” Captain Jer said. He motioned for his friend to come to the front counter. “Julie, I’d like for you to meet Lemuel Trot.”
Julie reached out to shake the man’s hand and said, “Nice to meet you. Are you as stubborn as the animal?”
“What animal?” the man with the slight frame asked.
“The mule,” Julie replied. “Did Jer bring you over from Missouri?”
“Julie! He doesn’t know you,” Captain Jer chastised his favorite bartender.
“What’s the origin of that name?” Julie asked. “I thought that I’d heard them all.”
“You’re speaking to someone that was named after a king,” Lemuel said. “King Lemuel has biblical roots.”
“Oh,” Julie sighed. “I thought there was a Lemuel that was Captain Ahab’s son.” She smiled. “That would have been a little fishy.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha,” Captain Jer laughed again sarcastically. “If you want some bad jokes then Trot here is full of them. He’s a professional comedian.”
Lemuel Trot stood five foot seven. He had a face that was weathered and a nose so large that is caused laughter before the comic opened his mouth. With thinning gray hair, large ears and a mouth that seemed to stretch from sideburn to sideburn his appearance suggested that he had found the perfect line of work. And his repertoire of old one-liners never ceased.
Julie started to laugh. “Go right ahead and laugh. When I was born I was so ugly the doctor slapped my mother.”
“Captain Jer was right,” Julie said. “That was baaaaaaad.”
“Wait until he gets a few in him. They get worse,” the retired pilot said. He reached up, placed his hand on the comedian’s shoulder and squeezed with good-natured affection.
“Oh, I get it now,” Julie said as a light bulb flickered in her brain, “he’s one of your drinking buddies.”
Captain Jer smiled. “From way back. I needed to bring someone out that I could beat on the course. The guys out here don’t give me a chance to whip up on them.”
“In that case, then welcome to Prairie Winds,” Julie said.
“I don’t know if we have enough booze in stock to handle both of you. I might have to tell J Dub to double the cooler space.”
“He doesn’t drink beer,” Captain Jer mentioned.
“Oh. What’s your flavor?” Julie pried.
“All the nights on the road got me hooked on vodka,” Trot said. He grinned. “I couldn’t let all my different bosses know that I was shit-faced.”
“When he moves to the Manhattans you need to keep an eye on him,” Captain Jer added. “But that usually doesn’t happen until a fifth is gone.”
“For crying out loud,” Julie said. “I don’t know if I can handle two of you around here, Jer.”
“Did you hear about the drunk that put a dime in the parking meter?” Trot asked.
“No,” Julie said.
“The arrow went to sixty and the drunk said ‘Geez, I just lost a hundred pounds.’”
“Oh, Lord.” Julie turned to Captain Jer. “Is this what I’m going to have to listen to when he has a few?”
“He’s got hundreds of them Jules.”
CHAPTER 3
The gang started to file through the clubhouse door. Dr. DV, the tall, silver-haired veterinarian entered. He went to the back booth where Fred had already grabbed the names and was sorting out who was in and who was out of the daily game. He pushed the box of jelly doughnuts toward the vet, not bothering to move his three-hundred-pound frame from its familiar spot.
BT, the retired school administrator had crammed his lanky frame into a chair and was playing a quick game of backgammon with Elia, the barber from Beirut. While rolling the dice with his left hand he moved the electric razor over his face with the right. Yuuto, a transplanted Japanese businessman that the guys had nicknamed YouWho, flashed his overbite.
Scottie P was the tall guy a little over fifty years of age that looked like a surfer dude with his long, blonde locks. He was the live-in lover of Father Alphonso Blair, the priest at Hands of Faith Catholic Church. Paul, a well-manicured and impeccably dressed retired military recruitment officer, was picking up a pair of shoes from BowTye in the opposite corner. The smaller black man, named Tyrone Munroe but nicknamed BowTye by the guys, always wore a white shirt with a bow tie and a burgundy colored beret. He originally hailed from New Orleans but relocated to St. Louis after Hurricane Katrina destroyed his home. BowTye, in a life that the others had come to admire, was a music icon and went by the stage name of Peel It Backe.
Paco entered the clubhouse. He set up shop in the St. Louis area as a lawn care specialist. At least that was what his business card said. The guys knew that he had a crew of relatives that cut grass around town. For a guy that snuck into the country from Chihuahua, Mexico he had done well for himself and ran a very lucrative cash business.
J Dub and Curt were outside running carts from the cart barn to the waiting area. With the springtime weather popping abundant sunshine the pair anticipated a busy day.
Pork Chop was running late. His real name was Andrew but half the world called him Andy and the others called him Drew. The guys at Prairie Winds nicknamed him Pork Chop after he made a U-turn in an interstate median on a golf trip to pick up a pork chop and eggs special from a country diner. He could have passed for a relative of Fred’s. The two loved their food and packed in the calories until their bellies lapped over their belt. If the food wasn’t going down the hatch it was plastered across the front of one of Pork Chop’s golf shirts.
“Hey guys, I’d like for you to meet Pops,” Pork Chop said as he entered the golf shop. A wiry, frail gentleman accompanied the regular. His shoulders drooped. He had a mild pot belly. He squinted.
“Aren’t you going to play with us this morning?” Fred yelled from the corner.
“I don’t think I can make it today. I had to get Pops out for some fresh air,” Pork Chop answered.
“We had a nice flight,” Pops butted in. “The skies were beautiful. I got up before sunrise, flew in to pick up my son and then set it down just outside the front door. If you’d like to come outside and see it, I’d love to show it to you. It’s a new plane I picked up last month.”
Pork Chop put his hand up to his mouth and whispered to the guys. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s got dementia.” His eyes rolled to the ceiling. “Baaaaaaaaad.”
“I’m a pilot and would love to see that plane you’re flying,” Captain Jer said.
“Come outside and I’ll show it to you,” Pops answered.
“What kind is it?”
“A single-engine Beechcraft.”
“We finally got someone that can relate to Captain Jer,” Julie barked.
“In more ways than one,” Elia followed.
Pork Chop grabbed Pops by the triceps. “No, we don’t need to go out and show the plane to Captain Jer.”
Pops jerked his arm away. “My ass we don’t. I’ve got to take some food to
Fifi.” He walked up to the counter and asked Julie, “Do you have doggie treats?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Milk Bones.” Pops was as serious as a rocket scientist trying to land a spacecraft on the moon. “But they have to be small and multi-colored.” He frowned. “Fifi doesn’t have many teeth anymore.” He shook his head. “Poor thing. If you don’t have lots of colors I’ll take the green ones and red ones. Those are her favorites.”
Julie was stunned. “Well… uh… let me look around here.” She turned and looked on the shelf for an alternative snack.
“No, you don’t need to find food for Fifi,” Pork Chop said to Julie. The guys in the back chuckled at the absurdity.
“We do too!” Pops shouted. “How are we going to get her to guard the plane?” He glared at Pork Chop. “You know as well as I that she’ll lay down on the job and someone will steal it.”
“We’ll find something to give to Fifi,” Julie guaranteed.
“How about a jelly doughnut?” Fred offered. “Fifi can have yours, Pork Chop.”
Pork Chop looked to the corner. “Come on guys…”
“I don’t know about that,” Pops said as he pondered the suggestion. “I guess we could try. But she’s real particular about what she eats.”
“Maybe we can give her a beer to wash it down,” BT suggested.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, no, I wouldn’t do that,” Pops insisted.
“Yeah, we don’t want to waste that good stuff on a dog,” Captain Jer chimed in as he turned to Pops. “Let’s go take a look at that plane you’re flying.”
“I’ve got to take her some food,” Pops said adamantly. “If I don’t she’s liable to bite you.”
“What kind of dog is she?” Captain Jer said as BT handed a jelly doughnut wrapped in a napkin to Pops.
“A poodle, but she thinks she’s a German Shepherd,” Pops answered.
Pork Chop and his dad walked to the table to grab a cup of coffee. “Now I know who he remin’ me of,” You Who said.
“Who?” Elia asked.
“Pork Chop’s father. He look jus’ like my Uncle Woo.”
The guys at the back table laughed. “We can’t call him Pops, can we?” Fred asked. “He’s not our dad.”
“Pork Chop, do you mind?” BT asked.
“Do I mind what?”
“If we give your dad a nickname around here.”
Pork Chop leaned over to the guys and whispered. “I don’t care. He won’t remember it anyway.” He reached for breakfast out of the box. “Hey Pops, the guys are going to give you a new nickname.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Because they love you.”
The older man nodded his head, acting like he understood.
“They’re gonna call you Uncle Woo. You can’t be ‘Pops’ to them.”
The old man shook his head up and down. “I guess that’s okay. I knew a Woo when I was stationed in Japan.”
“Come on, let’s go out and look at that plane,” Captain Jer said.
Lemuel Trot agreed. “Maybe we can hijack it.” The pair headed out the door. “Of course that depends on if we can get past the guard dog.”
CHAPTER 4
The ARDC in the state of Illinois is the Attorney Registration and Disciplinary Commission of the Supreme Court of Illinois. The purpose of the Commission is to investigate ethics complaints and resolve any issue regarding the propriety of a lawyer’s course of conduct.
Any attorney or member of the public may make an ethics inquiry; however, the Commission will not give legal advice or a binding advisory opinion. The program is designed to take any information that is provided and resolve any issue regarding a lawyer’s course of conduct.
Within the ARDC is the Ethics Inquiry Program. It is designed to assist attorneys if they have general questions about a lawyer’s professional responsibilities. In a perfect world it will assist them in resolving important issues in their practice.
Another program within the ARDC is the Client Protection Program. The purpose of this program is to provide reimbursement to clients who have lost money or property because of dishonest conduct by lawyers admitted to practice law in the State of Illinois. Funds from this program are used to reimburse clients that cannot get reimbursement from the lawyers that have caused their losses. This program is funded by annual registration fees paid by lawyers in the State of Illinois.
Both programs are staffed by a commission of attorneys and a team of paralegals. Even though the intent is to aid the public it is sort of like appointing a snake to take care of a snake. And, of course, if there is a dispute a snake will take care of itself before it will take care of another.
A complaint had been filed. The State of Illinois, specifically the ARDC, wanted to find out if any ethics violations had occurred at Atkins, Blum and Charles. That was a southern Illinois law firm that had quite a presence on the east side of the St. Louis metro area.
Dotting the river bluffs and sight lines of 1-255, the interstate outer belt that wrapped itself through the various towns that had been established on the Illinois side of the Mississippi River, were a multitude of billboards that advertised for the law firm. The posted slogan was quite catchy. It simply read: LEGAL WINS are as EZ as ABC.
Under the A was a picture of Tanner Atkins wearing the grin of a snake oil salesman. Below the B was the mug shot of Benjamin Blum complete with the beady eyes of a sociopath. Beneath the C was the image of Dawnatrelle Charles filled with outrageous laughter.
The trio now performed legal duties under the same roof. The law firm originally started as the brain child of Tanner Atkins, an attorney that specialized in civil litigation. He took on Benjamin Blum as a partner knowing that the slugs of society were innocent until proven guilty. Any murderer, rapist or high profile criminal sought the expertise of Blum to either get off the hook or obtain a lenient sentence. The pair later added Dawnatrelle Charles to take advantage of the blossoming sports agency industry. Along the way, the money-grabbing trio took advantage of lesser connected prey, ripped off unsuspecting and trusting clients or pissed off the moral majority that wanted to see justice done to the dregs of humanity.
So it wasn’t surprising to see a complaint filed against the law firm. Now it was the state’s turn to collect information.
Tanner Atkins was in his late forties. Over the years he had seen his law firm grow from a modest frame home with a wrap-around porch on a street lined with oak trees to a two-story office building to attract clients. What had started with a special use permit to conduct business out of a residential home had turned into an office corridor suited for white-collar, degreed professionals. The redeveloped street included a turnaround circle which surrounded a war memorial and flagpole.
The glass doors opened into a spacious atrium. Live plants, exotic trees, a waterfall and a proper koi pond added to the ambiance. Marble tile graced the foyer walkways. Rays of sunlight streamed through the glass.
A conference room with mahogany table, twelve cushioned chairs and built-in book shelves took center stage. Cushioned carpeting with an ultra-thick pad made a person’s ankle wobble on every step. A satellite dish piped in signals from any imaginable network. Each office was equipped with the finest plasma TV that money could buy.
Abbie Evers manned the phones. When clients demanded she was quick to don a headset and serve double duty as a hostess fetching everything from coffee and soft drinks to light snacks to the morning newspaper or current magazine. On this particular morning she had to affix her signature to a green notice after the postal employee had entered the law office. The return address indicated that the correspondence was from the ARDC in the state capital of Springfield.
“What’s this all about?” Abbie asked Tanner after delivering the letter to his office.
He took the envelope, noticed the return address and gingerly opened the communication. Concern was etched across Tanner’s face. He had lost a lot of hair on the top of his head. Vanity
plugs had been cultivated in the hopes of supplanting a new weave. His bronze complexion was slightly pockmarked by scars from teenage acne. “Same o’, same o’. You can’t do anything in this world anymore without somebody wanting to shift the blame.”
“You try to help,” Abbie started.
“ . . . and someone thinks they’re the victim,” Tanner interrupted. He tossed the letter onto his desk. “More paperwork. More crap to explain. Unproductive time wasted.” He shifted his focus to Abbie’s eyes. “How is a guy supposed to earn a living with all of these government watchdog groups? You spend half your time trying to justify your actions.”
“Which account?” She figured that she had a fifty-fifty chance that he’d tell her.
“Which one do you think?”
“The Morton estate?”
Tanner took a deep breath, let out an exasperated sigh and shook his head. “I should have never taken that piece of business.”
“What do you have to do now?”
“File more reports.” His mind raced through the options. “But I think that I’ll turn the tables on these guys.” He got up from his seat. “Where is that book that outlines the guidelines?” He walked to the book shelf in his office that stored volumes of legal journals. When he located what he was looking for he thumbed through the pages. “I think it’s about time to give them a dose of their own medicine. I’ve got rights too, you know.”
“Can you?”
In a vindictive tone Tanner barked. “They work for us. We don’t work for them.”
CHAPTER 5
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Benjamin Blum began as he started his closing argument. Dressed in a dark business suit that could have cost at least a thousand dollars and wearing a pair of four-hundred-dollar dress shoes, he certainly looked the part of a high-powered, successful and connected attorney.
His long-sleeved, white dress shirt supported a pair of gold cuff links. A red ascot in the upper front pocket of his jacket matched the tie that he wore. The starched shirt collar added to his impeccable look.