“What is it this time?” I ask, still flipping through my mail. A legal pleading I’d been waiting on catches my eye and I pull it out to start reading.
“DWI,” she replies. “His grandfather bailed him out. Hearing is next month.”
“Thousand-dollar retainer,” I reply automatically. “Have him come in and meet me the week before the hearing.”
Bonita punches the button to reconnect the call. I pick up the mail and take it back into my office to review.
The big, shaggy beast lying in the corner raises his head to look at me.
“Do you need to go potty?” I ask him. Bonita usually handles the honors when I’m deep into my work, but since I’m up…
My dog blinks, rests his head back down with a sigh, and closes his droopy eyes.
“Lazy man,” I chide, but that’s my Odin. The biggest, fluffiest, laziest Bernese Mountain Dog in the world. Bonita once told me that the only reason he’s lazy is because I sit on my ass all day to work and that he’s taken on my personality.
Also, another perk of owning your own firm—you get to bring your dog to the office, something I never could’ve done when I worked at my father’s law firm. Despite the fact he’s a dog lover too, also owning two Bernese Mountain Dogs, he’s a firm believer that they don’t belong in a professional setting.
Settling into my chair, I kick my booted feet up onto my desk. Speaking of perks, one of the best of owning my own firm? I make the rules, and my most favorite is that I can wear whatever the hell I want to practice law.
Today it’s rag & bone dark-washed, boot-cut jeans, a crisp white button-up shirt with a long, pointed collar, and a cashmere shawl in navy blue. My camel-colored Stuart Weitzman ankle boots are buttery soft with a gold-plated, three-inch heel.
Even though the total cost of today’s wardrobe is probably close to nine hundred dollars, my family would have an absolute conniption fit to see me dressed this way while practicing the prestigious career of law.
It’s why I don’t practice with them across the river in one of the modern buildings built of glass and chrome. The Alston Law Group is a family affair, consisting of my grandfather, my father, my aunt, my brother, and three cousins. Sure, there are non-Alston attorneys there, but they’re grunge workers and will never own a piece of the pie. They basically come in, get the experience and a coveted line on their résumé, and then they move on.
I tried my hand at business and contract law with my dad proudly accepting me into the ranks. But it wasn’t for me, and now I’m that lawyer across the river who helps poor people.
My family likes to give me hell about it, and while they still routinely try to get me to give up this slog and join them again, they also know I’m incredibly happy on the path I’ve chosen.
Is it hard work?
Hell yes. Sixty to eighty hours a week, and I can’t remember the last time I took a vacation.
Do I make a lot of money?
Hell no. Owning your own law firm is a grind, and there are too many attorneys and not enough clients. Luckily, the Alstons are old money spanning generations, so I’m a trust-fund kid. It launched my law firm, and now I use it to buy my fancy clothes and pay my fancy mortgage. It lets me serve the poorer masses at discounted rates. Troubled Charlie Bitterman will pinch and scrape up that thousand-dollar retainer, knowing that’s all I’ll charge him, and knowing it’s about eighty percent cheaper than other lawyers.
What he doesn’t know is that it won’t go into my pocket. It will go into the operating fund to help pay for my office lease here in Allegheny West, Bonita’s salary and benefits, as well as a modest amount into social media advertising. Truth of the matter is, though, most of my clients come from personal referrals, or they’re repeat offenders—like Charlie.
I read the pleading that had caught my attention, scoffing at the defendant’s motion to dismiss before putting it aside to look at in more detail. It’s going to take some research, and I’ll probably work on it tonight at home.
Some bills, a thank-you card from a satisfied client I helped out of foreclosure, and junk mail that killed at least a tree or two in its creation.
After tossing them into the trash can, I look down at the last piece of mail in my hand, an unopened, nine-by-twelve manila envelope. Bonita has carte blanche to open all my mail, but she didn’t open this one, and it’s because she saw who sent it.
Brooks Dumelin.
The tears immediately well in my eyes, and I grasp the envelope against my chest. I have no clue why something has been sent from him, but it’s clearly his handwriting. That’s his name and address in the upper left-hand corner.
I pull the envelope back and look at it. It’s fairly thick and postmarked yesterday, sent from Pittsburgh.
Brooks died eleven days ago. I just attended his memorial in Ithaca, New York, four days ago. I sat in the back of the church and stood at the back of the mourners, watching as his brokenhearted family grieved.
I grieved right along with them, just as I grieve now.
“Damn you,” I murmur low, knowing my words will reach Brooks up in Heaven. “Why are you plaguing me? I’d just shed the last of my tears, you jerk.”
I can almost hear him laughing … he truly enjoyed irritating me.
Swinging my feet off my desk, I reach into my middle drawer for the letter opener. I make an efficient slit in the top and with shaking hands pull out a thick sheaf of papers.
On top is a handwritten letter from Brooks, and it charms me that he took the time to do it. Who handwrites stuff these days? It’s much faster to type.
The letter is dated last September 28. Five months ago.
Dear Little Bit …
His nickname for me, because I always took things in small increments. He was Big Bit, because he went big on everything.
I know this letter is going to come as a shock, and you’re probably going to be pissed as hell at me, but I’m hoping you’ll forgive the favor I’m about to ask.
Enclosed with this letter is my Revocable Trust with a Last Will and Testament I had an attorney draw up for me. This is probably something that’ll never come to pass, as I hope to live a very long life complete with grandkids and rocking chairs, but God forbid something does happen before then, I wanted to make sure things were taken care of. I want you to handle my estate.
No, I need you to handle my estate because, as you well know, it’s going to be a bitch.
I know I should ask your permission first, even though I know you’ll say yes, but the truth is, I’m almost too embarrassed to put this on your shoulders. If you receive this letter, it means I’m dead and beyond embarrassment, so that’s some solace, I suppose. I’ve asked the attorney who drafted these documents to mail them to you after my funeral.
I trust you to make sure my wishes are carried out. I’ve made you the trustee because I know there’s going to be dissension among family members over this, and I know you’re strong enough to make sure what needs to be done is done. You’ll know what I mean when you read the documents.
We’ve talked about it enough, so I know this probably won’t be a shock. More importantly than the trust, though… I need you to make sure he gets the journals. Please make him read them.
He’s going to fight you every step of the way.