A House Divided

by Robert Whitlow

  “What numbers should I use?”

  “Ones that you can back up. Goings will grill you, and I think it will be more persuasive for him to hear the forecast from you than me. Your job is to accurately predict the cost of settlement and not overestimate the cost of continuing the litigation to get there. Don’t box the firm into a negative revenue model, and give him the incentive to let us go forward.”

  Roxy’s head was spinning. It was an impossible task. She didn’t yet know what the plaintiff companies would agree to in settlement or how much time the law firm would bill to reach the optimal point of resolution. Mr. Caldweller was way more qualified to guess than she was.

  Then she realized what the senior partner was doing.

  He was setting her up to take the blame, whichever prediction proved wrong. A wave of anger rose up from within her. She tried not to let it come through in her tone of voice.

  “Based on your experience, what do you suggest I say?” she asked lightly. “I don’t want to be ridiculous.”

  “I thought you liked ridiculous.”

  Corbin was amazed at how much he found himself looking forward to another AA meeting. After he and Ray returned to the office after lunch, he kept checking his watch. The meeting at the local mental health center started at four, and the afternoon seemed to drag by slowly. Shortly before time to leave, his phone buzzed.

  “There’s a Dr. Westbrook on the phone for you,” Janelle said.

  Corbin quickly ran through a mental list of the doctors in town and came up blank.

  “He said you sent him an e-mail,” Janelle continued.

  “Oh yeah, he’s the guy in California I contacted about the Colfax litigation. Put him through.”

  While he waited, Corbin was glad he’d already talked with Nate Stamper and knew there wasn’t time to spare getting organized.

  “I appreciate you contacting me.” Westbrook spoke in an accent that was more Maine than Malibu. “Tell me the status of the litigation.”

  Corbin quickly brought the chemist up to date. “I want to bring someone on board early to guide us through the initial stages.”

  “And you didn’t think that was necessary before filing suit?”

  It wasn’t the type of question Corbin expected from a hired gun expert looking for a paycheck. His opinion of Dr. Westbrook went up several notches.

  “Normally, yes, but the boys involved are sick, and I needed to move quickly. I believe the investigation performed by the state EPA officials fulfills that function.”

  “You may be right. Do you have a copy of their file?”

  “I have the important parts.”

  “It sounds like you’re more interested in hiring a consultant to advise you than a chemist who can testify as an expert in the case.”

  “I’d like someone who can do both.”

  The phone was silent for a moment.

  “I’m interested, but I can’t address issues of specific causation—only whether the levels of a chemical in the water supply reach levels that could potentially result in harm to the users.”

  “What would you charge to do that?”

  “Five hundred an hour with a three thousand retainer, billing thereafter on a monthly basis.”

  It wasn’t an unreasonable fee, but it was just the beginning of a cash outflow Corbin wasn’t sure he could sustain.

  Westbrook continued. “Also, I think I can help you locate someone to connect the dots medically if the chemical levels are sufficiently high.”

  “Really?” Corbin perked up.

  “Yes. I’ve worked with an internist who knows how to handle himself in a deposition. He’s board certified and has a level of expertise in chemically induced diseases. We collaborated in two lawsuits involving benzene exposure, but I think this would be in his wheelhouse too.”

  Corbin couldn’t waste time interviewing multiple experts.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’m interested in both of you. Send me your agreement, and I’ll forward the information in my file along with the retainer. What should I do about testing the water?”

  “I’ll handle that once I’m on the case. A service I use can take the sample and deliver it to me. I’ll run the tests here in LA.”

  “And send me the qualifications of the internist.”

  “Will do. I’ve not been to Georgia in years. How far are you from Atlanta?”

  “About eighty miles. But we’ll come to you if we take your deposition, probably via video so we can use it at trial.”

  “Whatever works for you and your clients.”

  Corbin picked up a hint of disappointment in the chemist’s voice, but he wasn’t going to pay travel time. Corbin would fly coach to Los Angeles . . . even if Nate Stamper would sit in first class.

  THIRTY-THREE

  By the end of the week Corbin had attended four AA meetings in five days. He’d experienced discussion meetings, Big Book study meetings, twelve-step study meetings, and speaker meetings. He’d especially come to appreciate the wisdom and insight of Jimmy Broome, who knew even more about alcoholism than he did alternators and transmissions. Corbin had stopped scoffing at the recommendation, first voiced to him by Max Hogan, that an alcoholic seeking recovery should attend ninety sessions in ninety days. Even though Corbin wasn’t ready to take that step, the idea no longer seemed ludicrous. A 90-in-90 commitment was akin to learning a foreign language by total immersion—in this case the message of AA.

  Corbin had gone the entire week without a drink. It wasn’t the first time he’d reached five days of sobriety, but it was the first time he’d done so because he was trying to quit drinking entirely. But early on Friday he knew a high hurdle awaited him. After work on the final day of the workweek was his favorite time to unwind.

  During his marriage to Kitty she could never plan a time for supper on Friday, as Corbin’s arrival would unpredictably fall within a two- to three-hour bracket. She and the children kept their own eating schedule, and she’d save a plate of food for him, which he often didn’t eat. Instead he’d collapse in a recliner in the den and doze off until waking up for another drink or two before going to bed. The tragic routine lost some of its pathos because of familiarity. Kitty, Ray, and Roxy structured their lives as if Corbin was out of town most Friday nights.

  Corbin wasn’t thinking about the past when he returned from lunch with Ray. He was anxious about the next few hours and the increased craving for a drink he could feel growing in his gut. He had a headache, and his hands shook if he held them out in front of himself. As the hours passed, the Friday afternoon hurdle was beginning to look like an insurmountable wall.

  There was a knock on his office door.

  “Come in,” he growled.

  Ray entered and Corbin lowered his hands below the level of his desk so his son couldn’t see them quiver.

  “I enjoyed lunch,” Ray said. “I think that place is going to make it if they keep up the quality.”

  “Yeah, the cook knows how to fix vegetables the way people around here prefer them. What do you want?”

  “I just got off the phone with the defense lawyer in the Peterson case. When I told him earlier today I wanted to schedule four depositions in the next month, he asked for a demand. The client gave me permission to take $10,000, so I called the lawyer back and started negotiations at $17,500. How does that sound to you?”

  “You probably should have opened at $20,000, but it just means you’ll have to go down slower. If you’re able to squeeze $10,000 from the insurance company it will be a win.”

  A sharp pain shot through Corbin’s head, and he couldn’t keep from wincing. Ray stopped and stared.

  “Do you have the Friday afternoon shakes?” he asked.

  Corbin pushed his hands beneath his legs. “Headache,” he replied. “I’ll take something in a minute. Let me know what happens in the Peterson case. It’s been sitting in the file cabinet when I should have been working it. Good job.” He waited for Ray to get up and leave.


  “I know this can be your toughest day of the week,” Ray said. “How can I help?”

  Before AA cracked open the door of honesty, Corbin would have brushed Ray off. He started to fall back into his old paradigm of denial, then stopped.

  “I don’t know,” Corbin said as he lifted a trembling hand to brush his hair away from his forehead. “There’s a meeting at the church, but it doesn’t start for a few hours.”

  “Do you think you should go to the hospital?” Ray asked in a soft voice.

  “Why?”

  “So you can enter a twenty-eight-day program.”

  Corbin had been toying with the 90-in-90 plan, but in the back of his mind he knew an inpatient program was a possibility. He shook his head. “I’m not ready for that. And I can’t be away from the office.”

  “I’m here.”

  “For one week so far.” Corbin shook his head ruefully. “You could run the DA’s office, but you don’t know enough about the civil side of a law practice to assume responsibility for all my cases. You’ve barely dipped your toe in the water.”

  Ray remained where he was.

  “Aren’t you going to say anything?” Corbin asked.

  “This isn’t an intervention, and you’re not going to be persuaded by an argument. You’ve taken huge steps the past few weeks. And I hope you’ll take the next one.”

  Corbin buried his face in his hands and closed his eyes. He pressed his fingers against his pounding temples. When he raised his head, Ray was gone.

  Corbin pulled open the drawer where he kept a bottle of painkillers. He shook out two, then doubled the number to four. There was some cold coffee in a mug on his desk. He popped the pills in his mouth and used the stale coffee to wash them down.

  Billy had a late Friday afternoon soccer match. During the drive to the sports complex, Ray couldn’t get his mind off his father. He and Cindy had prayed for Corbin every morning that week, and even though the battle for his father’s soul was fierce, he could truthfully report that Corbin Gage was fighting.

  Cindy was standing alone on the sidelines, wearing a yellow sweater that was one of Ray’s favorites. He sneaked up behind her and grabbed her around the waist.

  She let out a scream and turned around, and Ray quickly released her. “Sorry—I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

  “Then what were you trying to do?” she asked as she glanced around to see if anyone was staring at them.

  “Let you know that I was glad to see you?” he offered. “You look so good I couldn’t resist.”

  “A simple ‘Hi, honey, you look nice’ would have worked.” Cindy lowered her voice. “And my body doesn’t need a shock.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again. “That was a really stupid thing to do.”

  “And it’s been a tough day,” Cindy continued.

  A cheer went up from the spectators as a player on the other team threatened to score a goal. Cindy and Ray paused to watch. Billy was in the middle of a scrum in front of the goal, and he kicked the ball into the clear.

  “Great job!” Ray called out.

  The teams flowed toward the center of the field.

  “Why was it a tough day?” Ray asked.

  “It started out good. I didn’t get sick for the third day in a row, but then I saw Patsy Carpenter at the supermarket. Her parents want to sell their house on Roxbury Court. It’s a cute three-bedroom with a big backyard, in the Westside school district. It’s not on the market yet, but she said if we could work out a deal, her folks would save on the real estate agent’s commission and pass some of that on to us. It made me dream for a minute, but then I had to remind myself that I can’t.”

  The disappointment in Cindy’s voice was tough to hear.

  “I drove by the house on my way home,” she continued, “and it’s nicer than I remembered. They’ve spent money fixing it up on the outside, and Patsy told me they’ve replaced all the carpet.”

  “We don’t like carpet,” Ray offered.

  “I don’t like old carpet. But it would be a lot easier on a baby than hardwood floors. And it’s just in the bedrooms. Tell me you wouldn’t rather put your feet on carpet on a cold winter morning than on an unheated hardwood floor. And the kitchen has a new range and a nearly new refrigerator that will stay.” Cindy sighed.

  “How much do they want for it?” Ray asked.

  “I don’t want to tell you, and I was crazy to torture myself by looking at it. If things had worked out with the new job, it’s within the budget we’d discussed. But once it hits the market I’m sure it will get snapped up.”

  She turned away and faced the playing field. Ray didn’t know what to say or do. Their financial future was chained to a man desperately fighting to keep from slipping deeper into a pit of destruction, and what Ray thought might encourage her now seemed like more bad news. If Corbin went into an alcohol treatment center, there was no guarantee he would be able to function effectively as an attorney when he got out.

  Roxy’s words about their father’s law practice being in the intensive care unit flashed through Ray’s mind. He’d tried to keep a positive attitude all week, but in reality he knew there were only a handful of cases like the Peterson matter that might yield modest fees. Still, it was something positive to tell his wife.

  “I made some progress today toward settling a lawsuit my father had on the back burner.”

  “Is it a big case?”

  “Not really.”

  They watched the other team score a goal that put them ahead three to two. The coach took Billy out of the game.

  “Why is he taking Billy out?” Cindy asked, throwing up her hands. “They’re behind.”

  “He’ll put him back in after halftime. Some of the substitutes haven’t gotten to play at all.”

  A few minutes later the referee blew his whistle, signaling the half. The team huddled up around the coach.

  “So who’s going to come off the bench and help you and your father?” Cindy asked.

  AA meetings usually ended promptly; however, Corbin stayed in the circle as the others got up to leave. Jimmy came over and sat beside him.

  “Still got something going on?” Jimmy asked.

  “Just what I shared earlier about Friday night being the toughest time of the week for me. I don’t want to go home and face a house that’s empty except for a TV and the liquor bottles in the cabinet.”

  Corbin waited for Jimmy to tell him to pour the liquor down the drain. To his surprise, he didn’t.

  “Where are you with Step Two?”

  “The higher power stuff?”

  “Yes. It’s in there for a reason.”

  Corbin had a list of the Twelve Steps in his hand. He glanced down at the sheet of paper and silently read—Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

  Corbin looked at Jimmy, who didn’t seem in a hurry to speak.

  “What’s your higher power?” Corbin asked.

  “I met him in there.” Jimmy pointed to the door of the fellowship hall that led toward the sanctuary. “Jesus is my source of strength.”

  “You’re a member of this church?”

  “And the person who asked the church board if this group could start meeting here.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Eight years.”

  “You’ve been in recovery that long?”

  “Longer. I hope to pick up my ten-year chip in a few months.”

  “Kitty was the religious one in the family. My son believes like she did, but my daughter, Roxy, and I—” Corbin stopped. “I just don’t know about a power I can’t see or feel.”

  Jimmy leaned forward. “Remember the other day when you told the story about taking your grandson fishing and making the choice to leave the moonshine in the truck? Floating in your boat, do you ever think about God creating the beauty you see or sending the breeze you feel?”

  “No, I’m wondering what the fish are going to bite today.”

&nb
sp; “Spoken like a true fisherman.” Jimmy smiled. “Jesus spent way more time fishing than most people realize. Maybe that’s what you should check out in the Bible. It might help you connect with Step Two so you can get to Step Three—‘Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.’ ”

  Corbin left the meeting. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on the road ahead as he passed The Office, but he couldn’t help noticing out of the corner of his eye that the parking lot was full. The cars and trucks belonged to actual people, many of whom were longtime friends. They were real, the booze potent. An unseen power was less tangible than the air he was breathing.

  He resisted the urge to turn around and go back. The Office wasn’t the only place in town to satisfy a craving.

  As he turned into the driveway of his duplex, Corbin knew what he was going to do as soon as he got inside.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Roxy walked through the door and immediately kicked off her shoes in the foyer. It wasn’t that her shoes hurt her feet; it was a symbolic gesture linked to stepping out of the mess Mr. Caldweller had dropped on her at work. She went into the kitchen and poured herself a large glass of wine. As she did, she thought about her father’s decades-long Friday evening routine, but she quickly pushed the comparison aside. She plopped down on the sofa in the living room and swirled the wine around in the glass before taking a sip.

  Her phone, which was on the sofa beside her, vibrated and she saw Peter’s name and face. She placed the wineglass on a coffee table.

  “I just walked through the door,” she said. “Where are you?”

  “Still at the office waiting for a conference call with a client in St. Louis. It’s been the kind of day where I’m worried I’m going to mix up presentations and mention something in this call that was intended for a meeting earlier in the day. How are you?”

  “I spent the afternoon serving as Mr. Caldweller’s sacrificial lamb to one of our biggest clients. He made me guess what it’s going to cost to continue defending a big lawsuit when we don’t know everything the other side is going to throw at us. But that wasn’t the tough part. I had to predict what the plaintiffs would agree to accept in settlement without the benefit of an initial offer from them.”