[2017] The Whistleblower Onslaught

by David P. Warren

  She laughs, and then looking around adds, “Wouldn't be the first time we got naked in your office. Although your conference room table isn't exactly the most comfortable surface to …” She stops and smiles.

  “You're getting me aroused. You do realize that, don't you?”

  “I hope so; it takes me a while to get this dressed up. Besides, the kids are staying at my mom's tonight, so I intend to keep you hard all night. May as well start now.”

  “Don't forget, we have to make it through dinner first.”

  She grins widely. “We do unless you're real creative. And not the emergency button in the elevator. I don't want to feel rushed.”

  “Let me grab my briefcase, and we are out of here,” I say.

  “I saw that you let Donna out of here at a decent hour tonight.”

  “I had to. It's her anniversary, and she had plans to celebrate.” I consider for a moment. “Could be that she and Jim are already naked on some table.”

  “You'll know for sure tomorrow if she's complaining of a backache.”

  * * *

  The restaurant ambience is perfect. Soft lighting, tables placed in private inlets and servers who stayed only as long as necessary to bring the food.

  “I've missed you, lately,” I say to Lisa when we are alone awaiting drinks. “We've both been so busy lately, and I know I've been getting home late.”

  “I've missed you, too,” she says softly, taking my hand. “I know you are doing what you can to spend less time at the office, and I get that you're doing what you have to do. Don't worry, the kids and I are okay.”

  The waiter puts our drinks on the table, takes our order, and moves away.

  I lift my glass and she does the same. “To you,” I say. “You are truly amazing, you know that?”

  “I do, but don't hesitate to remind me whenever it occurs to you.How about to us,” she says, and we drink again.

  I look into her eyes. “You are also beautiful,” I say. “Have I told you that lately?” Lisa gives me her, You're laying it on a little thick—you already had me at let's get naked look.

  “No, really,” I say. “You are gorgeous.”

  “Thank you,” she says, smiling the smile that has turned my heart upside down since the first day I met her. There truly are things in this world that never get old.

  I take both of her hands and momentarily get lost in her eyes, something that has happened to me for as long as I can remember.

  “What?” she asks, studying my apparently idiotic expression.

  “I'm thinking that I am a lot more lucky than deserving.”

  She smiles widely. “You are certainly in a romantic mood this evening.”

  “Yeah, I guess so. You do that to me, you know.”

  “You still trying to get laid?” she whispers.

  “Does it show? And I thought I was pretty smooth.”

  “You are. That's how you got me in the sack the first five thousand times.”

  “You keeping count?” I ask.

  “Not any more. Once I found out I couldn't bill for it, and it wasn't deductible, there seemed to be no point.” There were a few moments of silence, and her expression became more somber. “I got a call from Joey's teacher today,” she says.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask.

  “She wants to make sure we were aware of teacher-parent conferences next Tuesday. I was a little concerned about the fact that she was calling to make sure we were coming—sounded like there might be some problem she needed to talk about, so I asked. Apparently not. It seems that our Joey is regarded as pretty sharp. Responds in class, does his work, and participates in class.”

  “Wow,” I say. “What's the bad news?”

  “I pushed for more information, and she found a delicate way of saying that he can be pretty direct with other students and teachers. Something like, he knows his mind and can be assertive.”

  “You mean he's rude or something?”

  “No, she said he wasn't rude or out of line. Just that he says what's on his mind.”

  “I thought all kids did that,” I respond.

  “Apparently, your son does so more than the average bear.”

  “He's my son when it comes to this particular attribute?” I ask, feigning indignation.

  “Absolutely. All the other good characteristics I mentioned come from my side of the family.”

  I grin. “Well if she thinks Joey speaks his mind, wait until she spends a semester with Katy.”

  We laugh at the prospect. “I bet we get more than one phone call once Katy puts her hand on her hip and sets their world straight,” I say, and we both visualize.

  The waiter drops off chicken curry for her and shrimp scampi for me, and we begin to eat. We are quiet and thoughtful for a while, and then I ask what I've been wondering. “Do you wish we had decided to have more kids?”

  She looks at me with wide eyes. “What brings that on?”

  “I don't know,” I say, “just wanted to see how you felt about it.”

  She looks like she's not entirely buying my motivation. She reflects a moment and then says, “I did for a while, but now I think our family is just perfect. I wouldn't change anything.” I nod. She studies me, waiting, and then asks, “And you?”

  “I think our family is just as was meant to be,” I respond.

  She gives me a flirtatious grin. “We should continue to practice, though, in case we change our minds.”

  “Definitely,” I say, and then ask, “Do we have to wait an hour after we eat or can we get right to it?”

  “Wait an hour?” she asks, furrowing her brow. “Only if we're going to do it while swimming laps. Otherwise, I think we're good to go.”

  “What time do we pick up the kids?” I ask.

  “I told mom we had to pick them up by 8:00 a.m. for school, although she looked disappointed.”

  “Well let's hurry up and finish dinner. We've only got eleven hours, and I want to allow at least an hour for sleep.”

  “You're feeling pretty ambitious there, sailor.”

  “Damn straight.”

  Lisa's expression turns more serious. “Thanks for taking some time tomorrow morning to come speak to Katy's class.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, fighting back sensations of guilt about all of the events that I seem to have missed lately. “It should be a gas. Although, they may be a little young to decide their career direction this semester. College and postgrad work are a little ways off yet, so maybe they can think about it until they graduate elementary school.”

  She grins. “You may be surprised. From what Katy tells me, you've got your work cut out for you if you're going to sway the career direction of her class.”

  “Yeah?”

  She nods. “Let's see, one guy wants to be a painter, although not in the conventional sense. He doesn't want to paint portraits or houses. He wants to paint billboards and T-shirts. One of the girls wants to sell makeup, another wants to be a telephone operator, and a third an Olympic gymnast. One guy wants to be a veteran so he can help animals, and one guy wants to drive a cab in Minneapolis.”

  I furrow a brow. “Why Minneapolis?”

  “No clue. Katy thinks maybe he likes snowball fights.”

  A busboy who looks fifteen stops by and collects plates. On his heels is the waiter, who asks if we need anything else and prepares to leave the bill. I hand him a credit card, and he quickly disappears from view.

  I regard Lisa a moment and then ask, “Have you considered what you're going to tell Joey's class about a career in real estate when it's your turn?”

  “Still working out the fine points,” she replies, “although Joey has given me a few instructions.” I make a this oughta be good face, and she continues. “I should avoid too much detail about the paperwork cuz no one likes that stuff. I should tell them they can make lots of money if they sell a bunch of houses and, there was one more thing.” She reflects and then adds, “Oh yeah, this is a good one—Don't say anything
embarrassing.”

  We both laugh, and then she says, “You mean you didn't get any instructions from Katy?”

  “Just one,” I say, considering the words. “She said I should talk more like regular people.”

  With this, Lisa begins to laugh hysterically and then to nod.

  “You think that's pretty good, do you?”

  When she can get control of herself enough to speak, which takes some time, she says, “She's got you pegged.”

  “Come on, now,” I say, a little defensively. “I talk like everyone else.”

  She shakes her head. “Other lawyers maybe, but not regular people.” She looks at me and then adds. “I'm used to your style, sweetheart, because we've been together a long while, but you could be a little more …” She searches for the right word, although I'm not sure whether she wants to be diplomatic or just accurate. Then she adds, “folksy,” apparently satisfied with her word selection. “Don't worry,” she says, “I find it endearing in a crazy way. It's only your children who need an interpreter.”

  “Ouch,” I say, but looking into her face I see no judgment; she is simply delivering a message. “I'll try to keep it in tune with my audience.”

  “Good. Now, let's go home and share some intimate sensations,” she says taking my hand and standing to leave.

  “You know, you've got a pretty interesting way with words.”

  “That's just the beginning, big boy.”

  Enough said, I see my credit card has returned, grab it, and we are on to better things.

  Chapter 16

  May 12, 2016

  At 8:45 a.m., I greet Ms. Parsons at the door to Katy's classroom. Ms. Parsons, who Katy regards as old and wise, had to be about twenty-five years old, with short blonde hair and eyes that danced around a small nose and dimples. She is one of those teachers who oozed excitement about the children she taught and spoke of as her own.

  “Hi, Ms. Parsons,” I say, extending a hand.

  “Hello, Mr. Winslow. So glad you could make it.”

  “Please, call me Scott,” I say.

  She regards me as if assessing whether this is appropriate, and then says, “Okay, and you can call me Betsy.”

  I nod, reflecting on the fact that Betsy Parsons seems an older name than the face that presents.

  “I was named after my grandmother,” she adds, as if having read my mind. Then she says, “I know the kids will enjoy hearing from you. I also know you're busy, so we won't keep you too long. As soon as we go inside, I'll have Katy introduce you.”

  “Katy will introduce me?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says, regarding me carefully. “Unless you would prefer not.”

  “No, no, that's great,” I say.

  Ms. Parsons and I walk into the rear door of the classroom, where she gestures to a seat at the back of the room. I regard the desk chair combination a moment, and then squeeze my six-foot, two-inch frame into it, wondering if I will ever be able to extricate myself. The students are all looking at me and probably wondering the same thing. A couple of them appear to be suppressing laughter.

  Ms. Parsons takes her place at the front of the room. “Class,” she says calling the group to attention with raised arms. When they look at her she announces, “We have the pleasure of having Katy Winslow's dad here to speak about his career today. Katy,” she adds, looking down toward Katy's seat in the second row, “would you like to introduce your dad?”

  From where I sit, I have a profile view of Katy, who momentarily looks as if she is considering the question but is undecided. She then stands and moves to the front of the room. She looks at me without expression and then at her classmates. “Boys and girls,” she announces, “my dad is here to talk to you about being a liar.”

  “A liar?” one of the kids says. There is some scattered laughter, and she looks both concerned and indignant. “You know,” she adds to clarify, “A tourney. He goes to court and gets judges to listen to him.”

  Ms. Parsons stands up and says, “That's right, Mr. Winslow is here to talk to you about being a lawyer. Thank you, Katy.”

  Katy nods, seemingly satisfied that all has been clarified, though probably not sure why there should have been any confusion in the first place.

  I squeeze from my containment and make my way to the front of the room. “Hi, boys and girls. I'm Scott Winslow. Being Katy's dad is the job I like best, but I am an attorney for a living. Let me tell you a little about what I do.” As I begin to speak, I see Ms. Parsons easily sit down in one of the minidesks from which I could barely escape.

  “I am an employment lawyer, so I represent people who are fired for unlawful reasons or are treated unfairly in connection with their jobs. Like people who were discriminated against because they have a disability, or because of race or age, and people who aren't paid what they are owed. I prepare the cases for trial, and then I go to court and argue the cases to judges and juries, so that they can reach a verdict.” I let that settle in and then add, “It's a pretty interesting business because you learn a lot about all kinds of other jobs and businesses. I guess I think it's most fulfilling …” I briefly consider my word choice, “most rewarding and fun, when I get to help someone who really needs help and who hasn't been treated fairly.”

  I look around the classroom and see that all the eyes are fixed on me. “Anyone have questions?”

  There's a moment of quiet, and then a couple of hands go up. I point to a young man in the middle of the room with short dark hair and a worried expression. “You are s'posed to argue in your job?” he asks with great concern. “Cuz my mom always tells me not to argue.”

  I see Ms. Parsons grinning, but as I look around, I quickly see that all others regard the question seriously. “That's a good point,” I say, “but it's really a different kind of arguing. It means explaining the facts of your case rather than being rude.” I make a mental note to tell this to Bob Harris, who seems to have missed this distinction.

  Three more hands go up, and I select a girl near the front. She stands to speak, locks her hands in front of her, and then asks, “My daddy is a sturgeon, and he says they get sued all the time and don't want to. Do you sue my daddy?”

  I want to smile at this because, if I have to be a “liar,” I'm glad that her dad will be introduced as a “sturgeon” when he comes to speak. “No I don't. I don't work on medical malpractice cases.” I look at Katy, who is scrutinizing me carefully. “Malpractice cases happen when someone believes a doctor made a mistake and hurt someone, but those aren't the kind of cases I do.”

  The girls sits, seemingly satisfied that I am not suing her father. I call on a young man at the back of the room. “How much money do you get?” he asks.

  Ms. Parsons stands up and says, “Blake, and all of you, that is a privacy question like we talked about. You can ask about the job but not how much money someone makes.”

  Blake looks concerned. “I want to make a lot of money,” he says. “How do I know if I want this job if we can't know how much he gets?”

  Ms. Parsons looks at me, and I give her a nod. “Great question,” I say, already convinced that Blake probably will make a lot of money. “You can make a good income as an attorney. The most important thing to remember when you choose your career is to do what you really like. A career lasts thirty or forty years, so you want to be doing something you care about.”

  Blake is still considering, and then says, “I like to play video games and ride my skateboard. Are those jobs?”

  “Maybe. I know that there are people who make a living creating new video games or improving old ones. I'm not sure about professional skateboarding.”

  Another hand goes up, this time attached to a young lady who has dainty features and a ponytail. When I call on her and she stands, she is shorter than most of her classmates.

  “What's your name,” I ask.

  “Emily.”

  “Okay, Emily. What is your question?”

  “What do the people get if they w
in the court case?

  “Another good question,” I say. “Ms. Parsons you have a very smart class.” I glance at Katy, and she actually rolls her eyes at this comment. “As part of our case we have to prove the amount of damages suffered because of what happened. Like lost wages or benefits of employment and sometimes emotional distress.” I look around the class and see questioning and confused expressions. “Money. We get an award of money to pay back the losses the judge or jury thinks we suffered after they consider all of the facts.” This seems to settle a little better on the crowd.

  Ms. Parsons stands. “All right, class, one more question, and then we need to let Mr. Winslow get back to work.”

  There are four more hands, so I select one I recognize as having been up for a little while. It belongs to a young man with ears that are too large for the remainder of his head, red hair, and a large number of freckles.

  “Your name, young man?” I ask.

  “Justin Franklin Mason,” he says.

  “Okay, Justin, go ahead.”

  “What happens when you lose your case?” he asks.

  “Well, then my client doesn't get any money, and he or she has to pay for court costs of the other side.”

  “Do you get money if your client loses?” he asks, as if worried about my welfare.

  “Usually not,” I say, “because I often make a deal where I get a part of what they receive.”

  “That's not good,” he says earnestly. “Why do you do that?”

  Ms. Parsons moves as if to jump in, but I give her a smile and address Justin's question. “The reason I do itis because many people can't afford to hire an attorney any other way. So it is how I am able to help them with their case.

  “I have an uncle who only gets paid if he sells stuff,” Justin adds. “Sounds like that.”

  “I guess it is like that. If what we do doesn't work, your uncle and I don't get paid.”

  “I think I want a job that pays all the time,” he says. “Maybe a paperboy.”

  I smile, and Ms. Parson jumps up. “Okay, class, let's thank Mr. Winslow for being with us to tell us about his career and answer our questions today.”