“What kind of questions?” Ray asked, then immediately regretted it. No smart lawyer asked a question to which he didn’t already know the answer.
“Leave that to me,” Nate replied smoothly. “They know the firm has to bring in fresh blood if it wants to continue. When the governor appointed Dexter Perry to the bench, we had to divvy up his litigation files, which overloaded everyone’s docket. And as Simpkin gets closer to retirement, someone is going to have to serve his clients and help fund his buyout with ongoing revenue.”
Mr. Simpkin had the best trust and estate practice in town. He’d grown rich collecting the percentage of large estates allocated for attorney fees in wills he drafted for clients.
“I’m a trial lawyer, but I’m looking forward to learning about a trust and estate practice.”
“Yeah, that’s the last thing we’ll pry from Simpkin’s bony fingers. It’s an unbelievable gravy train, but he’s a menace to his clients and himself if he gets within a hundred yards of the courthouse in a litigation matter. That’s how I’m going to sell you to him, and I think he’ll see that passing that part of his practice off to someone else will be a relief.”
“Whatever works for the firm. I’m a team player.”
“Great. Send over the order in the Colfax matter as soon as we hang up.”
“Will do.”
The call ended and Ray took a deep breath. Simpkin, Brown, and Stamper currently had four partners and two associates. Ray would be at the bottom of the pecking order, which meant any work the other lawyers didn’t want to handle would be dumped on his desk.
One of his first priorities would be to wiggle as close to Nate as he could and slip under his umbrella. Nate was a rising star, and Ray could try to link himself to the young partner’s success. The salary range Nate had mentioned at their second meeting would mean a 30 percent increase over Ray’s pay at the DA’s office. He might not be able to afford a BMW like Roxy, but he could set Cindy free to start looking for a bigger house.
Steve Nelson interrupted Ray’s daydream. “Ray, could you come into my office for a minute? I need to talk to you.”
Corbin grabbed a pack of peanut butter crackers from the stash in his credenza.
“Don’t forget your appointment at two o’clock,” Janelle said as he walked through the reception area toward the rear door. “You missed the last one and it took a lot of persuasion from me to convince the new client to reschedule.”
Corbin had failed to jot down the meeting in the old-fashioned Day-Timer he kept on his desk.
“I know about it,” he said grumpily. “What’s he want?”
“The guy bought a new car that’s been in the repair shop so much you told him he might have a case under the lemon law.”
“Oh yeah. Is he bringing all the invoices?”
“I asked him to.”
Corbin drove to the cemetery and stopped beneath a maple tree whose few remaining leaves were hanging on precariously. Fall was his favorite season; he liked the cool mornings and bright colors.
The cemetery was deserted. A few graves were decorated with flowers. Most were as barren as Corbin’s heart. He walked slowly between the new and old markers to the fresh mound of reddish earth that marked Kitty’s grave. The flowers from her funeral were fading fast. Corbin took out the pack of crackers and put one in his mouth. He chewed it slowly. Kitty had loved peanut butter crackers.
Before he put another cracker in his mouth, a wave of aching sorrow and regret rose up within him. Tears rushed into his eyes, and he was barely able to wipe them away with the back of his hand before they escaped. A second wave followed immediately upon the heels of the first. Giving up, Corbin didn’t try to deny them. Standing like a statue at the foot of the grave, he let the tears run down his cheeks and fall from his face to the earth at his feet. When his vision cleared, he glanced down and saw where they had watered a tiny circle of soil. He touched the place with his shoe, and it disappeared. His grief came and passed without leaving an earthly mark.
Corbin took a deep breath and sighed. He didn’t feel better, but he felt lighter. And he knew what he’d experienced was a beginning, not an end. He took out a cracker and placed it on the earth over her grave. It wouldn’t stay there long. A bird or squirrel would discover it with delight.
Which would make Kitty happy.
After finishing his appointment with the new client, Corbin called Cindy. “Could I take Billy fishing for an hour or so at Braswell’s Pond after school?” he asked.
“Where are you now?” Cindy replied.
“At the office.”
“Have you been there all day?”
Corbin tried to fight back resentment. He hated it when Cindy cross-examined him about his whereabouts. He gritted his teeth for a moment before answering.
“Except for a few minutes during lunch when I went to Kitty’s grave,” he replied in a steely voice.
“And you’ll come straight here to pick him up—”
“Then swing by my duplex to change clothes and hook the boat to my truck,” he interrupted. “That’s the plan.”
“Okay. What time should I expect you?”
“Doesn’t Billy get off the bus around a quarter to four?”
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll be there at four.”
Corbin hung up before Cindy could say anything else. He stayed in his office with the door closed until it was time to leave. When he came out, Janelle was typing a letter. She took the earbuds from her ears.
“I’m taking Billy fishing and won’t be back today,” Corbin said.
“That’s good.” Janelle smiled. “You’ll enjoy that much more than getting bogged down in a huge lawsuit.”
“You made your point earlier.”
“Did you call Millie Watson and refer her to Foxcroft and Bartlett?”
“No, I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“I could do it for you today,” Janelle volunteered. “I know it goes against your grain to pass on a case. I could set up an appointment for her in Gainesville.”
“What would you tell her about why I’m not going to take the case?”
“Nothing that will make you seem like a coward.”
“A coward?”
“No, no,” Janelle replied quickly. “That’s a poor choice of words. I’ll emphasize the truth—that a lawsuit like this will require a ton of resources.”
The woman made him want to reopen the debate. He took his hands out of his pockets and brushed his hair off his forehead.
“What time are you picking up Billy?” she asked quickly.
“Uh, four o’clock.”
“Then you’d better get going. It’s 3:52.”
Muttering to himself, Corbin left the office.
TWELVE
Corbin’s spirits rose at the sight of Billy sitting on the front steps of the house with his fishing pole and tackle box beside him.
“Hey, Pops,” the boy said when Corbin got out of the truck. “What are we going to use? Plugs or worms?”
“That’s up to you,” Corbin replied. “You’re the captain of this voyage.”
Billy opened his tackle box and took out a lure that was still in its packaging. “I want to try this one!” he said. “I looked it up on the Internet and watched a video on how to use it. They had a camera underwater and filmed bass going after it.”
“Sounds good,” Corbin said. “Where’s your mama?”
“Inside.”
Corbin opened the front door and called into the house. “Cindy! I’m here!” He waited a few seconds. “Do you know where she is?” he asked Billy.
“I think she’s in the bedroom.”
“Run inside and tell her I’m picking you up. I don’t want her to wonder where you are.”
Billy left, and Corbin inspected the new lure. He had serious doubts that the garishly colored rig had a chance of attracting a fish.
“Mama said it’s okay for me to go,” Billy said when he returned. “She’s not
feeling good.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know, but she’s glad you’re getting me out of the house so she can rest.”
Billy picked up his fishing pole, and Corbin grabbed the tackle box. They stashed the pole and box in the narrow space behind the truck’s seat.
“Don’t tell me to buckle up,” Billy said as he climbed into the cab. “I do it automatically.”
“Automatically?”
“Yeah, that’s another way to say I’m going to do something without being told.”
As Corbin backed out of the driveway, Billy launched into the details of a softball game that took place during PE class.
“Coach Henry let me be the pitcher,” Billy said. “It’s slow pitch, and the best way to do it is to throw the ball high in the air so it’s coming down from the sky when it crosses the plate. Then, even if the batter hits it, the ball won’t go very far. I got the hang of it real quick and struck out a bunch of kids.”
“How did you do at the plate?”
“I struck out once and got a single the second time. Do you think you could take me to the baseball field and throw me some balls to hit?”
“Sure. Would you rather do that instead of fishing?”
Billy gave Corbin an incredulous look. “Pops, are you kidding?”
“I guess I am.”
They reached Corbin’s house. A small aluminum boat with a ten-horsepower motor rested on its trailer, covered by a blue tarp.
“Take off the tarp while I go inside and change clothes,” Corbin said.
When he returned, wearing blue jeans and a short-sleeved shirt, Billy greeted him with the gas can in hand.
“It’s almost empty,” the boy said. “I can pick it up with one hand.”
Corbin refilled the container from a bigger one he kept in a storage shed behind the house.
“Pops, do you think you should see if the motor starts before we get to the pond?”
“I cleaned the spark plug, but it wouldn’t hurt to make sure. Do you want to pull the rope?”
Billy hesitated. “No, I can’t do it as hard as you can.”
Corbin pulled out the choke on the engine. After a couple of stout yanks of the rope, he pushed it in and tried again. The engine sputtered to life, and Corbin quickly killed it. He placed his fishing tackle in the truck bed.
“Let’s go,” he said.
It was a five-minute drive down the hill and along the main roadway to the turnoff for Braswell’s Pond. As is the case with many small lakes, the pond was dominated by big fish that devoured most of the fry before they grew large enough to fend for themselves. Corbin paid the owner a yearly fee that gave him the right to fish as much as he wanted. The only stipulation was one Corbin would have kept anyway—a strict catch and release policy for the bass.
“Who do you think we’ll hook up?” he asked Billy as the truck rolled to a stop beside the gently sloping bank.
“I want Judge Ellington,” Billy said, referring to one of the biggest bass in the murky waters.
“That would be fun,” Corbin replied, “but I haven’t seen old Mr. Murdoch in a while. I think he needs some exercise on the end of my line.”
After catching them multiple times, Corbin could identify individual fish by their markings and scars. Rupert Murdoch, named in honor of the media mogul, was a craggy bass with a torn dorsal fin and a distinctive black line on the right side of his jaw.
“Rupert Murdoch hangs out over there, doesn’t he?” Billy asked. He pointed to an area where thick grasses grew down into the water.
“Yes, and there’s an old tree beneath the water there, just waiting to reach out and snag our lures.”
Corbin unhitched the trailer and rolled the lightweight boat to the edge of the water. “Hop in,” he said as soon as the boat’s stern was wet. “I’ll hand you the gear to stow.”
The older man and the young boy worked as a team transferring poles and tackle boxes along with a small cooler. Inside the cooler was a mason jar filled with the same kind of mountain water dispensed from the rear of Red’s Restaurant.
Billy knew where everything went in the boat. Corbin released the winch and let the craft settle into the water. Grabbing a rope attached to the bow, he tied it off to a wooden post so the boat wouldn’t drift off with Billy alone at the helm. Corbin quickly moved the truck and trailer out of the way in case another fisherman came along.
“Stay seated!” he called out to Billy, who was standing up in the boat.
“I’m getting my life jacket,” the boy replied.
“Wait for me! We’ll do it together. The water is only about five feet deep there, but I don’t want to have to fish you out.”
“I know how to swim,” Billy protested, but he sat down on the middle seat.
Corbin returned and climbed aboard. He reached under a seat and handed a life jacket to Billy, who put it on.
“Where’s your life jacket?” his grandson asked.
Corbin stuck his hand under the seat again, but it came up empty. He resisted the urge to swear.
“It must have blown out during the drive over here,” he said, annoyed. “If I fall in you’re going to have to jump in and save me.”
Billy’s face grew serious.
“I’m kidding,” Corbin said quickly. “When was the last time I fell in the water?”
“Uh, you got wet putting the boat in the pond the other day.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. Let’s go.”
Corbin crouched low to keep the boat from rocking as he walked its length to the motor. Squatting down, he pulled the rope to start the engine. It sputtered but didn’t fire. He tried again, and it failed to catch. Corbin took a deep breath.
“Do you need to choke it?” Billy asked.
“Yeah, I forgot.”
The engine fired up after Corbin increased the richness of the mixture. Puffs of bluish-gray smoke shot out of the exhaust for a few moments. Corbin opened the throttle, and they headed toward the center of the pond.
“This is way better than rowing!” Corbin shouted over the sound of the engine.
Billy, his hands clutching the seat, faced forward and didn’t turn around. When they reached the middle of the pond, Corbin shut off the motor and let them drift toward the bank.
“I don’t want to spook Mr. Murdoch,” he said.
Billy swung one leg over the bench and straddled it. He squinted against the late afternoon glare of the sun in a way that reminded Corbin of Ray. The boat came into the target area. Corbin picked up his homemade anchor, a cement block tied to a thick rope, and gently lowered it over the side of the boat. Using a fishing knot, Billy tied his new lure onto the end of his line.
“Pops, will you check it to make sure it’s on good?” He held out his pole toward Corbin, who cradled the lure in the palm of his hand and pulled against the monofilament fishing line.
“That’s a good knot. You’re ready.”
Sometimes they fished at the same time, but Corbin enjoyed watching Billy more than he did fishing himself. Billy flipped the bail on the open-faced reel and cast the lure about forty feet in front of the boat in the direction of the shore.
“Nice,” Corbin said. “Count to twelve and start working it. I don’t want the first cast to end up in a limb on the sunken tree.”
Billy counted in Spanish.
“Show-off,” Corbin said with a smile. “What would you have done if I told you to count to fifty?”
“We’ve only learned to twenty. But one of my homework assignments was to count while doing something at home before class tomorrow.”
“Well, you can tell your mama you did your Spanish homework.”
Largemouth bass are aggressive eaters that savagely attack prey. Billy worked the lure with a series of gentle jerks coupled with turns of the reel until the lure bumped into the side of the boat.
“Try it again,” Corbin said. “And count to fifteen before starting your retrieve.”
Over the next ten minutes, Billy patiently worked several depths and angles without getting a bite.
“I like your new lure, but let’s try something else,” Corbin suggested.
“You take a turn,” Billy said. “I want you to fish too.”
“Okay. Are you thirsty?”
“Yeah.”
Corbin opened the cooler and handed Billy a bottle of water, then unscrewed the top of the mason jar and took a swig of moonshine. It wasn’t as harsh as Beanpole’s latest brew. Corbin licked his lips. He started to take another drink, then decided against it. He screwed on the top and returned the jar to the cooler. His fishing pole was already set up with a lure, and with a flick of his wrist he sent it flying. It entered the water with a plop. Corbin counted to ten in Spanish, got crossed up, and finished to eighteen in English. He began his retrieve. After two quick jerks followed by a brief pause, the fish bit.
“Fish on,” he said as the pole bent sharply.
Billy watched as the fish changed directions beneath the water. “Is it a big one?” he asked.
“It’s not Mr. Murdoch,” Corbin said as he kept the tip of his pole high in the air above the water. “He goes down deep and shakes his head back and forth. This guy is running all over the place.”
As soon as he spoke, the fish took off on a run. Corbin let it go. “Do you want to play him?” he asked Billy.
“No, Pops, he’s yours.”
The fish tired quickly and Corbin brought him to the side of the boat. Billy scooped him up with a net. Corbin grabbed the bass by the bottom of its mouth, which made it go limp, revealing the cavernous mouth that gave the species its name.
“I’m not sure we’ve met him before,” Corbin said. “He’s a juvenile who’s survived. What do you want to call him?”
“Sammy.”
“Why Sammy?”
“He’s a boy at my bus stop. He was picking on me until I jumped on him the other day and held him on the ground. I didn’t hit him or anything. I used the wrestling move you showed me.”
A House Divided Page 8