Stephen White - Blinded

“Jim and I have a history.”

Reflexively, I teased. “Like Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier?”

“What?”

I stopped teasing. “Yes, I know you have a history. I know you’ve beat him up a few times in court. That assault thing at Crossroads comes to mind. The one where his client was claiming self-defense after he threw a hot dog at the counter girl at Orange Julius.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said softly.

“What do you mean?”

“Lots of things happen at your office that you don’t tell me about. Your work, your patients, right? Confidential things?”

“Of course.”

“Me too. There are lots of things that go on at the Justice Center that I don’t tell you. Things I know because of my position that I shouldn’t, or can’t, share with you. You know that?”

“Yes.”

“Well, one of them involves Jim.” She stood and began to pull on some clothes. “I wish you weren’t seeing him.”

From my earlier reaction, she knew that I was.

“You sound serious.”

She opened her purple eyes wide and forced a sick smile. “I am. I wish you knew what I knew.”

I stood, too, and began to pull on some boxers. While I did, I worked out the choreography to a little two-step that would allow me to tell Lauren something important without telling Lauren anything at all. All I said was “That problem I told you about at my office? With the bug?”

She was in the process of pulling a camisole over her head. “No?” she said into the silk. “He’s not… Don’t tell me he’s…”

Ethically, I couldn’t respond to her question. Practically, we both knew I didn’t have to.

She turned her back to me while she tugged a thick cotton sweater over her head. I admit I was having trouble staying focused on the topic at hand. Steroids or no steroids, I still liked her ass.

“Alan, you need to call Jon Younger. Today, at home.”

Jon Younger was an attorney friend. He handled civil matters. Like, say, malpractice.

I said, “On Thanksgiving?”

She sat on the edge of the bed and began to slide her legs into some fleece tights. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t know what Jim might have planned.”

“Planned?”

“Look at me,” she said.

I did.

“Your first appointment with Jim? Was it after the Fourth of July?”

I blinked.

“That’s exactly what I was afraid of.”

Okay, Jim had come to see me for therapy after some confrontation with Lauren in the DA’s office that occurred around Independence Day.

“Lauren, your history with Jim? He has reason to be… I don’t know… angry at you?”

“Call Jon. He knows the background. Give him a heads-up. I’ll feel better.”

From down the hall came the not-so-soothing trill of a tear-laced “Mom Mom Mom.” Grace tended to throw the few words in her repertoire together in unfettered strings, oblivious-or disdainful-of punctuation.

Emily stood at the sound of Grace’s call, and her paw umbrella immediately clack-clacked on the wood floors.

Lauren said, “I got Grace.”

I said, “I’ll get some tape. I got Emily.”

Lauren and I and the two dogs all ran into one another in the doorway on the way out of the bedroom. Lauren hugged me and said, “I’m really sorry.”

She took off for the nursery.

The gravitas of Lauren’s alarm about Jim Zebid wasn’t quite registering with me. I didn’t see anything about the mess I was in that couldn’t wait until Monday. Interrupting Jon Younger’s Thanksgiving to warn him that I had a pissed-off patient didn’t make much sense to me at all.

While Lauren played with Grace, I made a different call, to a different attorney. I called Casey Sparrow.

Casey was a criminal defense attorney. She was smart, brazen, and fearless. She had a head of red hair that she’d had no more luck taming than most prosecutors had had taming her.

As I punched in the long string of numbers, I knew that an even longer rope of electron activity would be carrying my voice up thirty-five hundred feet of the Front Range to Casey’s rustic home on the Peak-to-Peak Highway below the Continental Divide.

“Casey? It’s Alan Gregory.”

“Oh, no. Not tonight. Who is it this time? You or Lauren?” Casey had once defended Lauren against murder charges. That chain of events had started with an after-hours call not too unlike this one.

“Don’t worry, neither of us has been arrested. Listen, I’m sorry to call on Thanksgiving, Casey.”

“But?”

“Do you have a minute to gossip with me?”

“Gossip?” Her voice went suddenly girly. I imagined that she curled her legs beneath her and stripped an earring from her ear to get more comfortable with the telephone.

I stepped out onto the deck and closed the door behind me. “Yes.”

“My partner’s family is due for dinner any minute. You can have me until they arrive. After that I’m going to be the best damn hostess in the high country.”

I didn’t waste any time. “You know Jim Zebid?”

Hesitation. Then, “Yes.” The yes wasn’t the least bit girly. The yes was almost totally “oh shit.”

“Something happened with him and Lauren last summer.”

“We’re gossiping, right?” she asked.

“That’s right. That’s all this is, just gossip.”

“Lauren won’t tell you, right?”

“Right.”

“I shouldn’t, either.”

I knew she probably shouldn’t, but I shut my mouth while she did whatever carnival act she felt she needed to do to juggle the moral aspects of her dilemma. Given her role with the defense bar, I figured whatever Casey knew about Jim and Lauren she knew because of courthouse gossip. Thus, her hands weren’t tied with the same ethical twine that bound Lauren’s.

Gossip is gossip.

Casey said, “Okay. I heard… I heard she turned him in to the Supreme Court last summer for disciplinary action.”

“For?”

“Serious stuff.”

I said, “He’s still practicing law.”

“These things take time.”

“What did he do?”

“Do I have to?” Just a little girly.

“Unfortunately.”

“He had a client who was accused of forgery, a petty thing. I don’t know the details, but I don’t think the facts are important. Lauren was prosecuting.”

“Yes.”

“Leave me out of this, Alan.”

“You know I will, Casey.”

“The rumor is that… hell. In lieu of legal fees, Jim was schtupping the guy’s wife.”

I was speechless.

I heard a doorbell ring in the background. Casey said, “Oops, got to go pull on my hostess’s apron. Jim’s defense, by the way, is that it was her idea. His client’s wife’s. She proposed the bargain. Have a good Thanksgiving. Best to Lauren.”

“Casey?”

“Yes.”

“Thanks, and good luck with Brenda’s parents.”

She laughed. “I’ll need it. Domestic, I’m not.”

I clicked the phone off and stared out toward the mountains south of town. The sky that enveloped the mountains near Eldorado was the color of an old quarter. The wondrous rich colors of autumn were almost gone; the beiges and grays and blacks and whites of winter filled the entire landscape from mountains to plains.

Jim Zebid’s first appointment with me had taken place during the beginning of August. In the intervening weeks he’d never mentioned anything about an investigation into his conduct. He’d certainly never mentioned a conflict with my wife.

Why had he come to see me? I hadn’t been sure before, but I’d been working under a clinical assumption that it was because his chronic anxiety was becoming increasingly dysphoric.

That old assumption was mutating into something new. I was guessing that Jim had been hoping to trap me into doing something that could be construed as malpractice so he could get even with Lauren.