Those round, trusting eyes look up at me. She still doesn’t like people, but Ressie sure does love me.
Back home, I refill her water dish and then give her a treat.
You’re rewarding a dog that just tried to run away.
I know Ressie wasn’t running away. She was just exerting some of that nervous energy of hers. I get it. I think sometimes I have the same kinds of feelings. I just find other ways for them to come out.
The clock on the wall says I have five minutes before my meeting at the coffee shop that’s fifteen minutes away.
“Do you want me to lose a potential client? Huh?”
Ressie just stands, staring up at me. I swear she understands every word I say.
I get in the car and speed on the way to the meeting. I realize it’s another job that I basically have to have. It’s not like the door is swinging open a lot at wonderful Tagliano, Endler & Associates. So it’s not a good first impression being late. And sweaty. And unfocused.
Go back to Tom Endler, the cool, calm, and collected guy.
I try to get my head back in order. I’m just not quite as tough as my dog. But then again, that’s why I named her Ressie. Short for resilient. My dog is like that. She’s a fighter.
Maybe I’m looking for someone to fight for me, to help pick me up after being tossed out the grand window of life.
My cell phone goes off five minutes after I enter Evelyn’s Espresso. I scan the door and don’t even have to see the phone in her hand to spot Grace. She certainly looks like a teacher, yet I imagine the woman in front of a class full of kindergartners instead of teenagers. I can picture young girls who think she resembles Elsa from Frozen and young boys who tell her she’s pretty.
Lucky students. I never had a history teacher I didn’t mind looking at.
“Grace?” I ask as she approaches.
“Are you . . . ?”
Perhaps the fact that I’m holding the ringing cell phone she just called should make my identity obvious. Of course I don’t say this. I realize this is the second time in less than twenty-four hours that a woman seems disappointed after meeting me in person.
“Tom Endler,” I say, extending a hand. “Your union-appointed attorney.”
Her handshake is less alpha-female than the one I got last night from Megan. Actually, the shake resembles the uncertainty covering Grace’s face.
“You don’t look like a lawyer,” she says.
“Thank you,” I say. “You should see the briefcase I carry around with me during moments when I feel like I really need to look like a lawyer.”
“I’m not sure I meant that as a compliment.”
“I’m determined to take it as one,” I say with the flash of my smile.
I realize that smile used to work a lot better years ago.
“I haven’t ordered anything,” I say. “Figured I’d wait until you got here.”
“Do I buy yours? Is that how this works?”
“Please. No. It’ll be on me. I just need something cold.”
I purchase an iced coffee while Grace orders some coffee drink with an eight-word description. We sit at a table and I watch her get organized. Her phone is now lying directly in front of her with her coffee perfectly placed in the center of the square napkin underneath. I almost spill my drink as I put it on the table.
“Do you work downtown?” Grace asks me in a pleasant and calm voice, barely audible over the afternoon crowd here.
“Yes.”
I don’t ask her if she’s referring to my office, which is back at my house. Well, actually my mother’s house, which I’m living in.
“So I’m sure you’ve heard about everything that’s happened.”
I nod and take a sip from the coffee. I haven’t stopped sweating since my afternoon jog with Ressie. “But maybe you can tell me everything that’s happened,” I say. “Your version.”
“My version?” she asks. The eyes that meet mine don’t quite match her cute and sweet exterior. “There’s only one version of what happened. The honest version.”
“Of course,” I say.
“We were discussing Mahatma Gandhi and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. and exploring the idea of peaceful nonviolence during my class. With all the violence happening in our country today, I thought it made sense to talk about what Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr. did.”
“So you inserted Jesus into the conversation then?”
“No. I was talking about what makes nonviolence so radical—how it’s an unwavering commitment to being nonviolent both with its initial approach and in response to the persecution that might follow. This was when one of my students—a young woman named Brooke Thawley—asked a question related to this.”
“About Jesus,” I add.
Grace nods without any air of defense. “Brooke asked if that was what Jesus meant when he said we should love our enemies. So I said yes, that’s exactly what he meant.”
“And that’s exactly how you said it?”
“Well, no. Not exactly. I explained in my interview with the principal and superintendent the precise words. Did you see those?”
Remember—she’s a teacher, bozo. She’s surely way smarter than you are.
“Yes, of course,” I say. “I just want to hear your explanation.”
“I agreed with her and said that the writer of the Gospel of Matthew recorded Jesus saying that. I shared the Bible verse that quotes this. I added that Dr. King confirmed it by describing his inspiration from Scripture and saying that ‘Christ furnished the spirit and motivation while Gandhi furnished the method.’”
I can already see how this might have gotten some attention from people at the school.
“So who texted and complained?”
“I don’t know that,” Grace says. “I just know one of the students began to bait me—just to try to get me or the class riled up. I told him that both Jesus and Dr. King were killed for their actions and that both started movements that survive to this day, even though both paid the ultimate price for their commitment to their ideals.”
“Did you spend a long time debating about this?”
She shakes her head. “It wasn’t a debate, Mr. Endler.”
I grimace. “Please. That’s my father. I’m Tom.”
“We maybe spent another couple of minutes talking about it. But that was all. Not long after that, Principal Kinney asked to talk to me. I always wondered how I could do something to go viral. I just didn’t think it would be something like this.”
“I think everybody is one dumb decision away from their life going viral.” I suddenly realize what this might have sounded like. “Not that what you did is dumb. I’m just saying—”
“I understand.”
She puts one hand in the other and I notice the lack of a wedding ring on her finger. I already knew she wasn’t married, but I still can’t help looking at those sorts of things these days. I wasn’t always like this, but I was never thirty-five before my last birthday.
“So, how did things escalate from this classroom conversation to the two of us talking here?”
“That’s something you need to ask the parents suing me. They just so happen to be Brooke’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Thawley.”
“What about the initial conversations with the principal and superintendent?” I say. “How did those go?”
“They were reacting to a situation that was blowing up. I readily admitted that I had responded to a student’s question. I also stated that the student’s question and my answer involved the teachings of Jesus in the context of the class discussion.”
“Context can be one of those gray areas in life.”
“There was nothing gray about this.”
There’s not a trace of doubt on her face or in her tone. I feel like the comic in the class being called out for making some stupid comment.
“I’m sorry,” Grace says, sighing and looking down at the table for a moment. “I’m still a bit unsure how it’s gotten to this point.”
“It’s okay—it takes a lot to offend me. So tell me about your conversation with the superintendent.”
“They asked the school’s attorney to sit in with us for any legal issues. A fellow teacher who serves as the union rep was present as well. They wanted to hear my side of things. The word allegedly came up quite a few times. Remarks ‘allegedly’ made by Jesus. As if I was quoting the perpetrator of some crime.”
“But you did quote the Bible, right?” I ask.
“Yes. And that was the thing they certainly did not like. Even my union representative couldn’t believe I had actually done it. That’s why it moved to the board and why you’re here right now.”
I no longer have sweat beads covering my forehead, but I can see similar ones lining the side of my iced coffee. There isn’t enough time left in the day to tell her all my reasons for indeed happening to be sitting across from her now.
“So, Tom, tell me: have you defended many teachers in disciplinary matters?”
“Nope. You’ll be my first. I’ve only done basic complaints and issues processed up and out of the jurisdiction of the union. Heavy-duty stuff like insurance coverages and wages issues.”
I can tell this only adds to her visible concern.
“Honestly, my original specialty was criminal law. I was just hired a couple of years ago from the public defender’s office. I switched gears a bit with my career and with . . . well, with everything.”
“Criminal law?” she says in disbelief. “I’m not a criminal.”
“Don’t be too sure of that.” I give her a chuckle, but she’s definitely not amused. “This kind of case makes everybody uncomfortable. The school board, teachers, parents—it makes them all feel yucky.”
“‘Yucky’? Is that a legal term you find yourself using often in court?”
There’s this polite and charming sort of fire underneath her. I smile and understand her jab. “Do you have a better word for it?”
She doesn’t say anything as she grips her coffee cup with both hands and looks out the window away from me.
“Grace, look—I’m going to level with you. Nobody wants your case. Nobody. I know the reality of my situation. I can be very honest about it. I drew this case because I’m the low man on the totem pole in a place where seniority means everything. If for whatever reason you don’t approve of me, you don’t have to agree for me to represent you, but then you’re gonna be on your own.”
That anxious look faces me again. I smile and try to make sure she understands I’m not bullying her. I’m being completely honest.
“You’re free to hire your own attorney—out of your own pocket—but educational law isn’t exactly a common specialty.”
“But it’s not your specialty either.”
“I’ve been in the world of education my whole life,” I tell her. “As for educational law, I’ve been mastering it the last few years.”
A businessman enters Evelyn’s Espresso and passes our table with a casual glance at Grace. He’s in a suit and a tie and probably made a million bucks this morning alone. Grace notices him, then looks back at me, lost in thought.
She’s weighing all her options and realizing there aren’t that many of them. Armani suit stepping right by us probably isn’t a realistic possibility for someone like her.
“Look, there’s good news,” I tell her.
Grace doesn’t believe me. “What?”
“I don’t like to lose,” I say. “And listen—I’m willing to fight for you.”
“Are you a believer?”
That brings me up short. “A what?”
“A believer. You know—in God?”
I believe in lots of things, Grace. Just not that.
“You mean am I a Christian? No. But listen—I think that’s an advantage.”
“Defending something you don’t believe in?” she says, her voice seeming to soften as she asks the question.
“Defending someone like you.”
“How is that an advantage?”
“You want to know something our world absolutely loves? Passion. And I can tell just sitting here and reading the report that you’re passionate about what you believe. Let’s face it: that’s why you’re in trouble in the first place.”
“I’m in trouble because I quoted Jesus in the context of a conversation, in the context of a question asked by a student. I might be passionate, Mr. En—Tom—but in this case I was talking as an educated history teacher. I’m passionate about history, too.”
I nod and wave my hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I understand. But this passion—you just showed it right then—it can blind you to the realities of procedure.”
“And that’s a good thing?” she asks.
“In my boat, yes. I’ve lived a long time with procedures. I mean . . . if you only knew.”
“So you want to break them?”
“Not necessarily. I want to think outside the box. I love passion. And more than anything else—especially the last few years—I absolutely love fighting against systems and powers that be. Those things haven’t been so good to me.”
For a moment Grace studies me and then nods. “Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay, I agree for you to represent me.”
“Good,” I say in a tone that says there really wasn’t any doubt she’d want me.
At least I can try to sound confident like any lawyer might.
“Can I ask one question?” Grace says.
“Sure.”
“Are you growing a beard?”
I have to think for a moment; then I touch my jaw and remember the scruff on my face. “I haven’t decided yet.”
She nods but looks like she has more to say.
“Don’t like beards?”
“I once dated a guy who would grow a beard every season. He was from Canada, and the Edmonton Oilers . . . well, all I can say is I know more about hockey than you know about the law.”
“So you’re not a big fan of beards, then?”
“I’m just not a big fan of my ex.” Grace grins and tightens her lips, then picks up her coffee.
I have to admit, I’m already completely on this woman’s side, regardless of what particular side it might be.
As long as I win in the end, that’s all that matters.
9
AMY CAN SEE the collision seconds before it happens. She’s standing at the counter, ready to order a coffee, when she glances over at the flighty woman who was in front of her in line. The brunette, who’s lost in her phone, scoops up her iced coffee blend and swings around to blast the tall man waiting patiently behind her. He’s wearing a white polo shirt, which Amy bets he will never wear again. A nice clump of brown lands on his chest, then starts to drip down like a really bloody gunshot wound in a movie.
“Oh no—I’m so sorry—I’m just running late,” the woman says, loud enough for everybody in the coffee shop to hear.
The man just stands there with a comical look as if he knew this was going to happen. “I’ll bet that’s caramel, right?” he asks her.
“Yes. Caramel Bliss.”
Amy watches as both of them grab for napkins. A guy serving drinks tosses them a towel to use.
The fashionable young woman behind the register widens her eyes and smiles at Amy, dimples flashing. “What’re the odds she offers to pay his cleaning bill?” Ms. Dimples asks her.
“I’d say it’s three to one,” Amy says. But the frazzled woman is starting to appear as if she’s preparing to leave the premises. “Actually, I’d say it’s a complete long shot.”
It’s after dinner, and Amy is at her usual nighttime haunt, ready to work for a while. Even though there’s a Starbucks she could go to across town, she loves Evelyn’s Espresso. It’s smaller and cozier and resembles the genetic offspring of a local coffee shop and an indie bookstore. There’s something about being surrounded by people and conversation and activity and background music that makes her feel a lot better about being al
one. She can work better in a place like this. She’ll often put in her earbuds and drown out the noise, but it’s still nice to know it’s there.
Amy gives her usual order to the fashionista, who rings it up. She’s never seen the girl here before. Amy would have remembered. She’s wearing an oversize tee with half-length sleeves and a design that has the words Style Is in the Mind down the front in the shape of a ladder. A long rock necklace and matching leather bracelet complement the shirt.
As the girl gives Amy her card back, a pop-song ringtone begins to play. The server behind the register grabs her cell and tells Amy to excuse her for a moment. Everything about the girl’s expression changes as she listens to someone on the other end of the phone.
“So what time do I need to bring you there?” she asks, then quickly adds, “No, no, it’s fine. Mom, seriously.”
The young girl brushes back the dark locks falling to her shoulders.
“It’ll be fine. I’ll be there. Okay. I have to go. Love you.”
Then she looks back at Amy and apologizes.
“It’s fine,” Amy says.
“It’s my mother. It’s just—she’s going to be starting chemo tomorrow and I told her—promised her I’d bring her.”
The girl takes a few minutes to make Amy’s medium vanilla latte, then hands it to her with the look of concern still covering her face.
“I understand,” Amy says with a smile. “I’ve been there. Things will work out.”
The young girl forces a smile in return. “You had to drive a parent to get their chemo?”
“Actually, I had to drive myself,” Amy says. “Mayo Clinic. Oncology unit. I wish I’d had a chauffeur.”
The girl freezes and looks more mortified than the woman who just spilled half her drink on some poor stranger. Amy suddenly feels bad for making the witty remark, especially since she was being complimented.
“Look—it’s okay. And honestly, I’d never make such a trite statement like that if I didn’t mean it.”
It’s true, too. Sometimes things did work out, so it was okay to tell others that. Amy had earned that right.
“You know what?” Amy says, eyeing something in the glass case next to her. “I think I’m in the mood for the biggest chocolate brownie you have.”
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