by Lexi Whitlow
I cut myself off when I realize that I’m rambling.
“Who cares if you talk?” Claire teases. “Girl, you need a lube job and a tune-up. If he’s half as hot as he was last time I saw him, he’s just the right man for the project.”
“You’re awful.” I laugh and throw a napkin at her. It’s time to change the subject again before I start thinking too seriously about her proposal.
“So, what about you?” I ask. “You working on anything interesting? Please tell me some good news. I need something uplifting.”
Claire shrugs, sighing. “I got nada in the way of good news,” she says. “My editor is a corporate tool who only cares about clicks and page views. We’re supposed to be a newsroom, but in every editorial meeting, the conversation drifts to advertising revenues. I’ve missed my page-click goals two weeks in a row. The only story that’s even come close is the mystery Powerball winner. That’s been trending. The winner is around here somewhere, but no one has come forward yet.”
“I heard something about that,” I say. “Some of the admins at work were talking about it. What’s the deal?”
Claire brightens, sipping her coffee. “The deal is that someone bought the winning ticket—the only winning ticket—at the 7-Eleven on Peace Street last week, but the winner hasn’t been found. I wrote the first article a couple days after the winning numbers were announced. I talked to the State Lottery Commission yesterday, and they said no one has stepped up to claim it.”
She grins at me. “I can guarantee you, if I won two billion dollars, I’d be breaking the door down.”
“Not if you knew what was good for you,” I say. “You’d do what this guy is probably doing. You’d step back, think about it, get a game plan together. It’s smart, what this guy is doing. Or girl. Whoever it is.”
“Screw that,” Claire laughs. “Give me my money!”
We both descend into giggles, drawing the attention of the quiet coffee shop patrons around us, their noses buried in books, or eyes fixed on smart phones and tablets.
A decade ago when Claire and I were in high school, Cup-a-Joe’s coffee house was a boisterous destination spot for teenaged hipsters and caffeine tweaked college students. The neighborhood has changed since then. Now this whole end of Hillsborough Street is lined with luxury high-rises and trendy restaurants. The once rusty, funky vibe has shifted to polished steel. Our old haunt has gone respectable, and very upscale. The change is a tragedy at every level.
“Anyway,” Claire begins again, dropping her tone. “I need to keep this article trending, but I’m out of ideas on how to spin it back up. There’s only so much you can say about nothing happening.”
“Why not interview a good Estate and Trust attorney,” I say grinning. “Do an article on what you should do if you win the lottery.”
Claire laughs. “That’s like doing a piece on hurricane preparation, after the Category 5 has wiped the city off the map. I should have done that story two weeks ago!”
“Next Powerball then,” I offer. “It’s still a good idea.”
“I’ll put it on my calendar,” Claire promises. “Now though, I gotta go back to work. Those airy click-bait articles aren’t going to write themselves. At least not until my editor can find an author-bot to outsource my job to. Probably won’t be long.”
I need to go too. I have a partner’s meeting to attend. Technically, I’m not a partner. But my Dad owns the firm, my last name is Beckett, and there’s no point in even trying to pretend nepotism isn’t at work in my career.
Back at the office, in a conference room surrounded by mostly older men, I spend ninety-five percent of my time listening to them talk about contracts and estates, tax shelters, and labor litigation. It’s mind-numbing.
“What about pro-bono?” my father asks, lifting his attention to Charles at the end of the table.
Charles is on the partner track, and he supervises all the pro-bono projects that come to the firm, handing off most of the work to juniors like me. Some of the cases involve personal injury claims, others are labor issues or civil rights concerns. This is where the fun work is, and where the most positive societal impact can be achieved. I’m chomping at the bit to get into as much of this work as I can, but my dad is opposed. He wants me on the big-league stuff, so I can fast-track into a partner’s seat.
Charles offers highlights on the three cases he’s managing. Then, stifling a yawn, he says, “And we just had a new one come in this week. Some special needs kid’s family wants to sue the city schools for lack of accommodation. The kid is autistic, and off the charts smart, but almost non-verbal. He can’t participate in group activities. He’s communicative via computer, loquacious even. The school refuses to provide a way for he and his classmates to interact.”
“I’ll take it!” I offer, piping up enthusiastically.
All heads turn toward me. My father lifts an eyebrow.
“Not enough work to do?” he asks, smirking. “I’m sure we can find something more important to occupy your time.”
I give him my best but please, Daddy look, cocking my head, smiling like I did when I was a kid, begging for ice cream.
I hate myself in that moment, but it’s a pattern I fall into right away. I can’t help myself. Like Charle’s can’t help being an asshole. And Logan can’t help being … completely delicious.
I cross my legs, and uncross them again.
Where did that thought even come from?
I look to my father again, and he smiles at me indulgently. I hate myself even more, but I can tell he’s about to give in.
Jeffrey Beckett—shrewd litigator, power-player, hard-nosed businessman. He folds like a bad poker hand. He waves at Charles. “Give it to her. Otherwise I’ll never hear the end of it.”
When we’re done going through the long list of open case-loads, my dad sits back with a bemused, thoughtful expression tugging his cheek. I know that look. It says he’s got a bright idea. This is rarely a good thing.
“So, does anyone know anything about this lottery story?” he asks, raising a topic that’s the last thing I expect my dreadfully serious father to broach.
Brows furrow all around the table. No one knows where he’s going with this.
I—tentatively—raise my hand. He eyes me with suspicion.
“Speak,” he instructs, back to his hard-nosed self.
I tell them about my conversation with Claire. When I’m done, my father nods.
“I was thinking that, if perhaps for no other reason than the publicity it would generate, we reach out to the Lottery Commission, and offer the ticket holder some free consultation time with the estates and trusts team,” he says. “Maybe he hasn’t come forward because he’s not certain what to do. And on the off-chance he takes us up on it, it poses an opportunity to secure a high-net-worth client on retainer.”
That’s the worst idea I ever heard. Since when does Beckett, Burkehead & Winslow need publicity? We’re one of the top firms in the state. Plus, we don’t need to get tangled up with this mess. My gut tells me that this winner knows what he or she is doing, and we don’t need to be part of the problem. But I keep my mouth shut. I’ve had my win today, and I’ve said enough already.
“That’s brilliant,” Charles says. “Odds are the guy is clueless. It would be an easy client to manage, and we could milk a steep retainer for decades if we play it right.”
Heads nod all around. My stomach turns, and I shift uncomfortably.
Are they serious? Jesus, what a bunch of parasitic opportunists.
“Handle it, Charles,” my father says. “Sweeten the offer with whatever you can think of. See if you can get the lottery commission to issue a joint press release.”
He turns to me. “Bryn, you call your friend Claire and tell her we’ve got a spin for her story. Charles and I would be happy to talk to her.”
Oh God. I would rather eat glass, then chase it with rubbing alcohol.
But my father’s eyes don’t leave mine.
Turns out I have a Beckett trait too—I fold just the same when I’m told what I need to do.
I sigh, slumping in my seat. “Okay,” I offer, feebly.
* * *
Two Weeks Later
“Not a single bite,” Charles grumbles, folding the newspaper.
He’s referring to the fact that no one has taken our law firm up on the offer for lottery related representation, allowing us to bleed them dry until the end of time.
He glares at the widescreen television on the wall where half the staff are already gathered to watch the press conference. The owner of the winning, Triple Mega-Powerball lottery ticket has, at long last, come forward. This was announced two days ago via a note on the Lottery Commission’s Facebook page. The brief statement said the winner would be identified at a news conference today.
Speculation on who it is and general anticipation of finding out, is the single most popular news story in the country right now. It’s well ahead of reporting on criminal investigations of corruption in the current presidential administration, the discovery of microbial life on one of the moons orbiting Uranus, and a kitten who fell down a well and was rescued by the family’s pet monkey (who was conveniently outfitted with a body camera for the dramatic descent into the abyss.)
I know for a fact that every media outlet in the state is present at the Lottery Commission PR event. I suspect every major cable news organization in the country is represented too. I heard something about it on the BBC early this morning, so the story even has global traction. It’s gotten crazy, way out of hand.
Whoever this poor guy is, I feel sorry for him. His life is about to become uncomfortably complicated.
“It’s starting!” Bonnie, my admin, pipes up. She’s bouncing with excitement, clapping her hands like a kid at a birthday party. This is all she’s talked about for a week.
We gather around the television screen. Even my father pops in to watch the drama unfold.
There must be twenty people behind the podium framed in the camera’s view. The commissioner speaks, explaining the delay in announcing the winner.
“The ticket owner chose to take some time to consider the ramifications of this life-changing event. We certainly understand and appreciate that…” He drones on too long with empty, official sounding words that explain precious little, but take up lots of airtime.
“…I won’t keep you waiting any longer. We’re pleased to announce that the winner of the Triple Mega-Powerball lottery, two point six-seven billion dollars, is… Mr. L. E. Chandler, native and lifelong resident of our fair capital city, Raleigh, North Carolina.”
‘L. E. Chandler’… rings a bell. That hollow feeling hits me again before I even figure out who they’re talking about.
A second later a man steps to the podium. He’s wearing a hat, a full beard, and dark glasses, but something about him seems familiar.
Clearing his throat, he leans nervously into the microphone and begins speaking.
It’s not his words that I hear, but rather the unmistakable tenor of his voice.
“It’s my pleasure to be here today…”
“Holy shit!” I gasp out loud. Everyone turns in my direction.
Beside me, Charles shakes his head in disgust. “No… it can’t be. No freaking way.”
“Do you know him?” Bonnie asks, her face a puzzle of excited confusion.
I nod, laughing. “Yeah. He’s my mechanic. And… we went to high school together.”
“Un-freaking-believable,” Charles groans, and turns to me. “You know Bryn, he’s a dumb hick and an asshole, but he’s always had a thing for you. I bet you could sign him if you put your mind to it. He’s going to need a lawyer, and who better?”
“…I’ve retained the services of Curtin, Roberson, Dunigan & Salans, out of D.C. to help me and my family determine how best to plan and manage this windfall…” Logan says to the crew of reporters and television cameras assembled in front of him.
Smart. I grin, and my grin turns into a wide smile.
Way to go, Logan.
My turn to laugh. My father’s ears perk up at the mention of what is probably the most prestigious Estate and Trust legal practice south of New York.
“Dumb hick, huh?” I say, a merry smile spreading over my face. “Maybe he’s not as dumb as you think.”
“That shithead,” Charles gripes. “That son of a bitch went out of town. You’d think he’d be a little more loyal than that, seeing as how two of his best friends from school are lawyers. But no, the bastard goes and gives his money to a fancy D.C. firm.”
Best friends? Charles can’t possibly be referring to himself as one of Logan’s ‘best friends?’ What a load of crap.
We watch the press conference. Logan only takes a few questions, revealing almost nothing to the media about himself or his family. It’s clear someone has coached him on what to say and how to say it; he remains as vague and open-ended as possible. When pressed as to what he plans to do with the money, he shakes his head.
“It’s too early to say anything about that,” he offers. “The law firm will handle all discussion of that later. I expect there will be a press release or two. Beyond that, I can’t say.”
A moment later he thanks everyone for attending, begging off, moving to the side of the stage for the photo-op with the big, fake, just over two and a half-billion-dollar check. Camera flashes strobe from every angle as the world records the moment an unknown auto-mechanic from North Carolina became an instant billionaire.
Just as our little gathering in the conference room breaks up, my phone rings in my pocket. It’s Claire.
“Hey, Lois Lane. Did you see?” I answer, hoping she watched the press conference.
“Oh my god!” she screams into the phone. “Oh my god! It’s Logan Chandler!! Can you believe it!? What a story! I gotta go start writing it! I’m so excited! I wonder if he’ll give me an interview!”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
If he’s smart, he’s changed all his phone numbers and is headed out of town ‘til this nonsense blows over.
And Logan Chandler, whether or not anyone in this town believes it, has always been a lot smarter than he looks.
Chapter 4
Logan
The great reveal at the end of this circus is that there is no check. There’s the giant dummy check they use for promotional photographs, but when that part’s done, no one hands you a check, shaking your hand, telling you not to spend it all in one place. No. There’s paperwork. Lot’s of freaking paperwork.
Tim Dunigan, my lawyer, handles everything. All I do is sign my name in a bunch of different places. The funds are transferred electronically—nothing as exciting as that giant check. Tim and his team have already set up the accounts, including trusts for Mom and Drake. They’ll never have to worry about anything, ever again. Our house will be paid off by this afternoon, along with every other debt we have.
After taking the cash option, and paying taxes, I got just a little bit more than $994 million bucks. That’s quite a come-down from $2.67 billion, but I’ll try not to complain.
That’s how these things work.
I peel the fake beard off my face, tossing it with the dark glasses and hat in the nearest waste bin as we walk toward the elevator.
“Are you ready?” Tim asks, pausing by the closed elevator doors.
“No,” I offer him a crooked grin. “But I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”
He nods. He’s been more like a father to me throughout this whole thing than my own father ever was. His guidance has been invaluable, his support, essential.
He even hooked me up with a travel agent who booked everything for Disney. Fucking Disney. I smile. I can’t help it.
“One more thing,” he says as the elevator doors open. “You’re going to be tempted, especially in Orlando. Women are going to throw themselves at you. Keep it zipped up. Don’t start any new relationships or even one-night flings. Don’t even think about
it until you’ve got a handle on who you can and can’t trust. You understand me?”
“I do. I was a star quarterback for a while,” I remind him. “I know that scene well.”
“Good. Be careful.”
He puts out his hand and I take it to shake, conscious of the grime still embedded in every pore and wrinkle. He doesn’t care, or at least doesn’t let on that he notices.
“I’ll call you in a couple days just to check in,” Tim says. “You call me if you have any issues. You have all my numbers.”
I nod. I have a new phone, a wallet full of fancy credit cards, a new social security number, and new state driver’s license number. I’m starting over, starting fresh. It’s not like the old me never existed, but it means that financially, the new me is playing in a much bigger league. Different rules apply, or so they tell me. We’ll see.