The Trials of Max Q, page 2
Ashley takes my answer as an excuse to segue to the other part of my life that she harbors great concern for—my love life. Or more specifically, my lack of one.
“So how did your date with Jessica go?” she asks. I can tell she’s wanted to ask me about it all day.
When I don’t respond, Ashley’s face fills with disappointment. “What happened, Jack?”
The Jessica in question is an Assistant District Attorney in my office named Jessica Shepherdson, or Shep, as she goes by. Ashley has been backroom campaigning for her to be my running mate since last March. I think she might have an ulterior motive, since Jessica shares her passion for clothes and shopping. Although, Ashley’s love stems from her pure joy of the sport, while Jessica’s motive is more about getting the right outfit to move up the ladder of success.
“I’m just not ready to date right now,” I say.
“Jack Lawson, I can’t believe you—you two are so right for each other! You would be like the super-cute lawyer couple,” Ashley gives me one of her pep talks, but skillfully avoids the topic of Reyanne, which hangs over the moment.
Super-cute might be a stretch, but you can’t imagine how much better a trust fund makes you look to people. I have light brown, wavy hair and a six-foot, slim body that’s the ideal build for wearing a suit. On the downside, my skin is on the pale and pasty side, and the body, while thin, isn’t exactly beach-toned.
“C’mon, Jack. She even went fishing with you. No girl does that unless she’s totally into a guy,” Ashley pleads.
Fishing on Otsego Lake in my Adirondack guide boat is a hobby I’ve picked up that’s helped me gain some peace. And I admit that Shep going out of her comfort zone to join me was an impressive gesture. But I have to put an end to this.
“Thanks, guys—I know what you are trying to do, but we already had the talk.”
“The talk?” Ashley inquires, looking confused.
“You know—I like you, but we work together and the timing is off, so it’s best to maintain the status quo.”
Mac shows me some support, sort of, “Besides, Ash, our friend Jack has now become a local celebrity by prosecuting that Andy Kass wacko. The laws of the universe state that once you become famous you must drop the current girlfriend and upgrade to models. So what would be the point in Jack dating someone he would have to dump, anyway?”
Another dose of Macademia, followed by a sigh from Ashley. It’s business as usual. Andy Kass is a local high school student who got a little perturbed at being picked on by his classmates. So the day after his graduation, Andy decided to combine his explosives fetish with a little bomb-making instruction from the Internet, to drop Otsego High School to the ground. Nobody was present at the time, so there were no casualties. But it has become a hot-button issue in Cooperstown, which normally only gets excited when the topic is whether or not Pete Rose should be included in the Baseball Hall of Fame. The debate has divided the Cirillo household.
“He’s not a wacko,” Ashley states passionately. “He was making a statement about an institution that mistreated him for years. Was it wrong? Of course. But he shouldn’t go to jail. It wasn’t Columbine—he didn’t try to hurt anyone.”
Mac rolls his eyes. “C’mon, Ash, the fact that nobody got hurt was sheer luck. I think it’s a blessing we got this guy at a young age before that anger escalated. Sweep it under the rug and sooner or later he is swinging on the monkey bars at al-Qaeda camp.”
“What do you think, Jack?” Ashley asks me, but she knows I can’t talk about the case. I wouldn’t get in the middle of their border-skirmish, anyway.
“What I think is that we’re running out of time to place our bets on the last race,” I change the subject, then force the issue by walking toward the nearest betting booth.
“Who you betting on, Jack?” Mac asks as he follows.
“Not Attorney@Lawson, even if he has the prettiest tail.”
Chapter 3
As we make our way through the crowd, a low rumble begins in the grandstand area. It soon grows to a buzzing roar.
All eyes go to the striking woman who is strutting down the incline of the grandstand, toward an expensive box seat. The attention is not new for Laney Bang.
Her thick mane of blonde hair dances gracefully in the summer breeze and despite the July heat, she wears a long, black leather trench coat. She smiles, both at her admirers and those who think she is the devil, without playing favorites.
When she arrives at her seat, she engages in a long production of unbuckling the strap around her waist and removing the coat. She reveals a Catholic schoolgirl outfit with micro plaid-skirt that leaves little to the imagination, along with black, knee-high boots. It leaves the crowd speechless.
“Now that’s an entrance,” Mac breaks the silence, still trying to catch his breath.
“Way to keep it classy, Saratoga,” Ashley quips. “I guess I missed the sale on school uniforms at the whore store.”
When Mac wisely doesn’t respond, she asks, “What is she doing here, anyway?”
“She’s a horse owner—has one going up against Attorney@Lawson in this race,” I intervene.
“The name of her horse is La Levrette,” Mac adds with a sophomoric grin.
Since we all took French at Brown, I know that the name translates to “The Greyhound.” I’m hoping the reason for the name was that the horse runs like a greyhound. But I know that la levrette is also the French term for a certain sexual position.
“She’s disgusting!” Ashley confirms my fears.
At one time, not long ago, the idea of an adult-film actress entering the mainstream seemed farfetched. But Laney Bang has thrown out the rulebook. Her memoir is currently number one on the New York Times bestseller list and her cable talk show is challenging the giants of late night. Her films, the kind that once were hidden in brown paper bags, are often shown to large audiences in mainstream theaters. Rumors of movie roles with her clothes actually on, and of running for political office, no longer seem outside the realm of possibility.
To some, she’s the ultimate male fantasy and the darling of Madison Avenue, while others see her as a weapon of the devil, which needs to be disarmed. All anyone can agree on is that they’ve never seen anything like her before.
The horses are led to the starting gate. Laney Bang takes her seat and the crowd’s attention reluctantly returns to the track.
Ashley remains focused on her, snipping, “And where do they come up with those names? Laney Bang sounds like some deadly plague that was rampant in the seventeenth century.”
Realizing a wrong answer could have him sleeping on the couch, Mac retreats to his comfort zone, which is his vast baseball knowledge. “I think you get your porn name from taking a derivative of your first name, while the surname is based on occupation. You see the same thing in baseball. For example, Don Mattingly was always known as Donnie Baseball, and Ted Williams was Teddy Ballgame. Her real name is probably Elaine, so she went with Laney Bang.”
Ashley gives him a “do I know you?” look.
For reasons only known to him, Mac thinks he’s on a roll and continues, “That’s not the only way. As we all learned from the classic film Boogie Nights, the traditional naming process is to take the name of your first pet and combine it with the name of the road you grew up on. I lived on Broad Street and our dog was named Rex, so I would be called Rex Broad.”
This time Ashley smiles and plays along. “I would be Missy Carriage! How about you, Jack?”
I reflect on this for a moment, and as it usually does when the subject is my childhood, the memory turns negative. “We were never allowed to have a pet.”
“Your sister is kind of a pit-bull, so maybe she could be considered a pet,” Ashley offers.
“Then I would be Kerri Silvermine,” I say, then shake my head, not believing I am having this conversation. “If we are going to place bets we better hurry.”
“I’m going back to the original plan,” Ashley says.
“I’ll bet if La Levrette is anything like its owner, it will have a pretty tail,” Mac adds with a grin.
Glare from Ashley.
Chapter 4
We walk briskly across the grounds, passing picnic areas and concession stands that entice with the aroma of grilling hamburgers.
A man cuts off our path. He is wearing formal dress and a large top hat that looks like something out of Lincoln’s closet. He stands out as odd, since the majority of high society in their suits and fancy hats are located in the clubhouse, or the numerous luxury boxes added in recent years. This area is where the T-shirt picnic crowd hangs out.
“Mr. Jack Lawson?” he addresses me.
“Who would like to know?”
“Mr. Lawson, your company has been requested in a private suite to view the next race. And you’re welcome to bring your friends as guests.”
“And who is this request coming from?”
“Ms. Ethel Lawson, the owner of Attorney@Lawson.”
As I formulate my escape strategy, Ashley decides for me. “We’d love to! C’mon Jack, it’ll be fun.”
“That area is formal dress,” Mac cautions. “While my lovely wife is dressed to thrill, Mr. Lawson and I are dressed to grill, as in burgers.”
I glance at my colorful Hawaiian shirt, which hangs loosely off my lanky frame, and then look down to the shorts and sandals that emphasize the whiteness of my legs. For better or worse, I’ve come a long way from my prep school youth in which I never even owned a pair of jeans.
Mac isn’t auditioning for GQ magazine either. He wears what he always wears when he’s not in the office. He is an avid sports memorabilia collector and the latest rage is overpriced sports jerseys of historical athletes. Today’s model is a Mickey Mantle, circa 1956.
“Exceptions are made at Ms. Lawson’s discretion. But if you would be more comfortable, I could loan you a jacket and tie.”
We decline the formal wear, but agree to follow. We move into the clubhouse, and I feel like we’ve traveled back in time to an era of high society and glamour.
The clubhouse has been given a few uplifts over the years, but for the most part it has maintained its traditional look, and probably doesn’t look much different than it did on August 3, 1863 when Lizzie W became the first thoroughbred to cross the finish line.
We pass the Club Terrace on the second floor, before being whisked through the formal Turf Terrace dining room. We then enter a forty-foot luxury suite. It has all the modern amenities—stadium seating, private bathrooms, an open-air observation deck, and a large spread of catered food.
The sight of yours truly stops all conversation, and I don’t think it’s because of my outfit. I can feel the stares. I recognize them—they are my family.
A tuxedo-clad waiter provides me with a copy of the track magazine called Post Parade. A young female waitress, also in a tuxedo, offers us flutes of champagne. I accept, take a swig like I’m doing a shot of gin, and then hesitantly venture into the hornet’s nest.
My cantankerous grandmother approaches with the help of her ever-present cane, her face straining to transform her usual perma-pissed look into a pleasant smile. “Jack—it is so good to see you,” she exclaims, and gives me what is as close to a hug as she is capable of.
Via a complicated process of succession, Ethel is the current matriarch of the family, despite not having Lawson blood. She is the judge, jury, and executioner in determining who is to receive inheritance, and of equal importance, how large that inheritance will be. My sabbatical from the firm, publicly at least, has been handled with much more care and support than expected. I am an asset to LB&G and wanted back—hence this orchestrated pep rally. My excursion to the Otsego County DA’s Office has been spun as a temporary civil service that I’m offering to mankind before I hop back on the money train.
“You look well, Jack. We’ve all been pulling for you in your rough time. But we knew you’d come through with flying colors—you’re a Lawson, and Lawsons aren’t quitters,” Ethel states, pulling away from our quasi embrace. Her pep talks are usually more Patton inspired than Hallmark.
“You remember Mac and Ashley,” I introduce my friends.
Ethel has always been fond of Ashley, never failing to remind me that she would have made a “suitable” Lawson wife. On the other hand, she has never had any use for Mac. But for my benefit, she provides him with a wrinkled smile and an admirable attempt at a warm greeting.
Ethel then guides me around the suite like I’m a show horse, reintroducing me to my own family. Uncle Thomas, Uncle Charles, nieces and nephews in miniature tuxes as if they were the freshman class in a Lawson training course.
I don’t have much to say. First of all, I don’t particularly like most of them. Secondly, I am a little apprehensive about my current situation. But most of all, I’m what Reyanne used to term a “social moron.” In the courtroom I resonate total confidence. But outside of my comfort zone, I tend to trip over myself and often retreat inward.
I can tell Mac is feeling equally out of place. He whispers in my ear, “I am so hopelessly middle class.” He takes another glass of champagne, looking to take the edge off. In contrast, Ashley seems born to be in this company, which I suspect is adding to Mac’s anxiety. I think he fears waking up one day to find she desires a more grandiose life that doesn’t include him.
The dog and pony show continues. More uncles, aunts, nieces, nephews, and mistresses. All are staying on message with encouraging words and smiles.
The underlying reason behind the pomp and circumstance is that I have a certain natural talent. A trial lawyer is a specialized calling, and not easily replaceable. Most lawyers, Lawsons included, seldom speak in open court, and many go their entire careers without entering a courtroom. For the longest time, major law firms considered it to be somewhat disreputable to have a criminal lawyer among their partners. But with the explosion of corporate crime and an epidemic of indicted CEOs, I became a necessary—and very profitable—evil. Which made it that much sweeter (at least for me) when the ugly duckling of the Lawson family became the golden boy of LB&G. But thankfully, Reyanne saved me from that path.
I scan the room, and to no surprise my mother is nowhere to be found. She has been ostracized, although still getting paid handsomely. For the most part she’s been written out of Lawson history. It doesn’t bother my mother—if Jackie could leave Aristotle Onassis, then surely she could live without Andrew Lawson. The only thing my mother and father ever agreed on was their aristocratic view that they were chosen to be above the masses.
My father is both welcome and present. He’s attempting to appear happily stunned by my appearance, but he isn’t a good actor. I like that I was passed on his genes for height, but avoided his hairline.
“Jack, I hear nothing but good things of your work at the District Attorney’s Office. We are proud of you,” he regurgitates the company line.
“It’s great to see you again,” cheerfully states Mandy, Mindy, or whatever is the name of my father’s twenty-something girlfriend. She wears an almost identical ensemble as Ashley—white sundress and oversized hat with her long blond hair stylishly streaming from the back—and greets me with a hug and loving kiss on the cheek, which I find odd since I’ve never met her before.
My father orders more champagne for Mindy/Mandy, as he is programmed to always be in control to the point of obsession. As a member of the chosen elite, he is above the randomness of life.
Our conversation takes on the shape of most conversations we’ve had since my youth, and we are quickly reminded that we have little to say to each other. We shake hands like the strangers we are and I move on to greet more people being forced to suck-up to me.
I am greeted by another twit cousin with a sense of entitlement, an uncle who looks like he dyed his hair with a black magic marker, and a few VIP guests of LB&G.
Suddenly before me is a recognizable figure. He stands about six-foot-three with a golden helmet of hair that outlines his sculpted face, highlighted by a jaw that looks to be carved from marble. He is dressed differently from the others, wearing the uniform of a polo player. A baggy red shirt with sleeves to the elbow, and a bright yellow stripe running diagonally from his left shoulder to his right hip. He wears white breeches tucked into dark brown English riding boots. If I had to describe him in one word it would be … perfect.
Chapter 5
“Jack, I would like to introduce you to the next governor of the state of New York—Drew Anderson,” Ethel gushes with pride.
A few people surrounding Anderson salute him with a light golf clap in his honor. He shrugs it off, as if such flattery has wounded his humble spirit.
“Ms. Lawson is being kind, as usual, but I haven’t even decided yet if I’m going to run.”
Those around him grin, knowing that Drew Anderson running for governor is one of the worst kept secrets of all time.
The Thor-like Adonis reaches out and shakes my hand with a vice-like grip. “We’ve met before,” he informs Ethel, before returning his focus to me. “I want to congratulate you Jack, on all the fine work your office has done with S.A.F.E,” he says like a skilled politician, making me feel like we are old friends.
S.A.F.E is an initiative that Anderson founded, working closely with my boss, Otsego County District Attorney Gifford Brown. It stands for Society Against Failing Ethics, an initiative that prioritizes the prosecution of smaller crimes deemed to lower society’s values—things like prostitution and pot smoking. Or ideally, hookers who smoke pot.
Anderson moves his campaign to the next potential voter. “Good to see you again, Mac,” he greets him with a glowing smile. They have worked together on occasion. Anderson is the owner of Max-Q-Collectibles, a giant in the sports collectibles and memorabilia industry, which often works closely with the Baseball Hall of Fame.
