Butler Wren and the Wandering Finger
by Anthony Lukas
|
Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3 |
part 1
”Mr. Wren,” said the venerable Judge Hazel Von Bonnet.
“Your Honor,” said Butler Wren.
“You seem to be alone at the podium.”
“Quite true, your Honor.”
“Your client?” asked the Judge, waving an inquiring hand.
“Incapacitated, your Honor.”
“Incapacitated?”
“Well, incarcerated.”
“Oh, dear,” said the Judge, shaking her head sadly.”Is he a guest of our jail?”
”Guest” indeed, thought Wren. The good Judge is allowing herself a slice of wry this morning. “I am afraid not, your Honor. He is currently residing in the jail of our sister county to the south.”
“Ah, a new offense then,” said the Judge. “Well, I am afraid that I must issue a bench warrant, of course...” She proceeded to utter the necessary incantations to do so, inquiring of Wren if would he be appearing as attorney of record and sundry other necessary bookkeeping matters before bidding him, “Good morning,” and then moving on to the next defendant.
Well, thought Wren, as he sauntered down the front stairs of the City’s aging Hall of Justice, some people just don’t have the sense the gods gave a turnip. Just turned eighteen but with a juvenile record, the little nitwit and his dimwitted, coddling parents were in for a rude awakening in adult court.
He smiled, rubbing his mental hands together at the fees he would be charging for today’s appearance, several appearances at least in the other county court, then more for the case here, moving his fees into the high four figures, at least. And Mr. and Mrs. Dimwit could surely afford it, Wren grinned. They appeared to be quite well off, Mr. D being some kind of entreprensewer, probably involved in something unsavory, like real estate.
Wren was feeling in a light and celebratory mood. When he reached the corner at the end of the block, he paused. Left toward his office or right toward Millie’s and a celebratory slab of pie? Right it is!
Wren walked just a block through a neighborhood that not long ago had been one of warehouses and small buildings housing tradesmen businesses but now was filling with refurbished buildings with offices and condos. He walked up to the ground floor of what had been mostly an old warehouse and now was trendy lofts. He pulled open an old-fashioned screen door to enter Millie’s Diner.
He surveyed the tables, empty this time of morning save for one occupied by three young women all texting on their cell phones. Probably to each other, thought Wren, turning his back to them and taking a seat at the counter, a counter that had been there all the years that Millie’s had, as it had morphed from a place of simple home-made diner food to one with such fare as burgers with pickled jalapenos and cherry relish and pizza with marinated artichokes and apple-smoked salmon.
And here comes the architect of this marvel, marveled Wren, now shuffling down the counter with a raspy “Hi ya, Butler,” a pot of hot water and mug with a tea bag at the ready. Wearing a big blue-hair wig, indeterminable years, plastic-winged framed glasses with lenses as thick as legal briefs and towering to a height of maybe five feet, Millie poured water into the mug now in front of Wren. “Apricot,” she said.
He nodded, and watched her slide a hefty slice in front of him, smile an “Enjoy,” and shuffle off.
Wren lifted his mug and sipped his tea. His eyes wandered over the back counter, and his mind wandered back to his first time here. His dad had brought him here. He had worked as a machinist in one of the small businesses that had been here then.
Then they had met here from time to time after Butler had started his first law job. It had been in one of the downtown towers, physically just a mile or so from Millie’s, but a far greater distance stretched between the wealth those towers represented and the blue-collar neighborhood Millie’s had been at the time.
Wren’s dad had died while Wren was still in that tower being buried by paper and by the partners’ egos. Forever haunted by the fear of making costly mistakes for the wealthy clients and corporations the firm represented, having the constant fear of potential failure. Wren’s mind seemed to have been constantly whirling.
Wren remembered the memorial service for his dad, a brief rosary by a priest who hadn’t really known his father. Wren had wanted to stand and talk but his mind was too jumbled with the things he had wanted to say and too fearful of failing to say them properly. So he had just sat as people had filed out. He regretted his silence to this day.
Soon thereafter, Linda had led him from those towers to a law practice meant to help people, not just generate wealth. Thanks to her, and with time and age, he was no longer cowed by people or circumstance... mostly. Wren sometimes imagined what he would have said about his father at that service if he had been then as he was now.
Now what the hell brought on that train of thought? mused Wren. Maybe the sight of Millie still chugging along behind the counter. He shook his head and turned his attention to his apricot pie.
Three things happened as Butler raised his first forkful. He saw himself in the mirror, neither handsome nor ugly, aging reasonably well, a little rumpled, perhaps. A few lines of worry from some three decades before the Bar and from life in general, but otherwise unremarkable in appearance.
And, his wife’s voice came to him from a few days ago, saying, “You know, you may want to lighten up on the between-meal snacking.” Glancing behind him, she added: “There’s getting to be a little too much butt in the Butler.”
And, the screen door opened and Fred Gimble walked in. He was a nondescript man, one of those people who people easily overlooked, an attribute the process server didn’t mind at all. He was carrying his document case.
Not good, thought Butler. He turned on his stool just as Fred glanced in his direction and started. Gimble walked over with, “Hello, Butler.”
“Fred. Hope you’re not here on business.”
Fred paused. “Afraid I am.”
“May I ask—?”
“Well—” Fred began, but just then Millie emerged from the back. Fred quickly laid a sheaf of papers on the counter before her. “Millie Fine, I am serving you with a civil complaint. You must respond or default may be entered against you.” Millie looked confused, Fred looked embarrassed, and Wren looked down at his pie.
The processor server slipped back toward Wren with: “Sorry about that, Butler,” and a nod back at Millie, who was reading through the served lawsuit.
“That’s your job, Fred. Lord knows you’ve done it plenty of times for me. Who’s the plaintiff’s counsel, if I may ask?”
“Stephen Sage,” said Fred.
Oh, dear, thought Wren, Steve the Sleaze.
“Maybe you can help her out,” murmured Fred.
“Oh,” said Butler, “I am sure Millie has plenty of other lawyer acquaintances—”
“Butler!” and Millie was steaming down the counter toward him. She slapped the papers on the counter and glared at them. “Look what they’re accusing me of!”
Wren gingerly picked up the offending sheets and skipping all the whereas, grievous emotional distress and other boilerplate, found the meat of the matter: “And while enjoying a portion of defendant’s savory ancho chili pie, plaintiff discovered a portion of a human finger mixed in with the contents thereof.”
“Geez,” said Fred.
“Never happened!” snapped Millie. She pointed a finger at Wren, or almost as the arthritic finger bent slightly to the right. “You’re going to get these lying birds for me!” and stormed into the back.
“Well, looks like you’re the man,” said Fred.
The Man? thought Wren. And felt that familiar feeling in the pit of his stomach, that acidic feeling of possible inadequacy to the case. Wren knew he was not the best or smartest lawyer in this city, filthy with high-priced legal talent. Still, he’d always muddled along, trying to overcome his apprehensions with a desire to do good for his client.
Wren’s thoughts began to churn: a growing anger at someone for picking on a hard-working someone like Millie; worrying what the mere accusation could do to her business; pondering lines of defense; wondering if she could even afford to pay him or a settlement.
And he thought of Steve the Sleaze and others like him. Low on ethics, high on slime, daily lowering the standards of the Bar while raising the level of their bank accounts. Wren’s lips tightened into a grim smile. Yes, he thought, perhaps I am the Man. He’d take the case pro bono if need be.
“There!” said Millie, plopping a business check down in front of Wren, “That should be enough to get you started.”
Butler looked down at a one followed by four zeroes. “Geez,” he said.
* * *
Fred gave him a ride to Market Street, the broad boulevard that cut the downtown of the City in half. Butler got out with, “See ya,” and headed up Market a couple of blocks to his offices, his mind still filled with thoughts about the new case. And of the large retainer check in his coat pocket. And “Damn, did I forget to eat my pie? ”
Wren dodged a phalanx of young women pushing their urban combat strollers, babies hidden in the massive metal and plastic vehicles, the mothers chatting among themselves. He skipped around a gaggle of older ladies burdened with packages, marching along the sidewalk unheeding of those around them. No doubt headed to a cafe lunch, thought Wren, to drink and try not to notice that their usefulness to society is years behind them.
Wren arrived at the front of the Flynn Building, a granite-clad office building of the early 1900s, next to one of the turntables where the City’s cable cars began their climb halfway to the stars. As he pushed through the heavy glass doors of the Flynn, Wren felt the sense of calmness he always felt on entering the Flynn. The lobby always cool, the outside traffic noises hushed, his steps echoing off the inlaid marble floors as he hurried to the elevators.
When new, the Flynn had been home to prestigious law firms, professionals and business firms. Such tenants had long since moved to newer quarters of steel and glass further downtown in the financial district, leaving the Flynn with less well-heeled tenants. Not that the building was being neglected, the Flynn was like an aging socialite, no longer part of the young crowd, but still demanding respect. All of which suited Wren just fine, he reflected, riding up one of the Flynn’s ornate elevators and touching its burnished bronze and oak.
He exited and walked down the marble floored hall, lighted with polished wall lamps, not soul-sucking florescent tubes. He came to the double oak doors with frosted glass bearing his and other attorneys’ names and delighted in the simple act of turning a real brass door knob in a real wood door to enter his offices of many years.
Behind the antique reception desk sat the efficient and decidedly not antique Sandra Bowes.
“The Duncans called. They want you to take junior’s new case,” she said, handing Wren several pink message slips.
“Delighted to!” said Wren, “even if I find them and their offspring somewhat odious. Opulent house, matching Beamers, tasteless furnishings. Ah well, a new case is a new case, especially when it is lucrative. Still, henceforth, Sandra, we shall to refer to the Duncans as The Dimwits.”
Sally stifled a laugh as a voice said “Who are dimwits?” Butler turned and looked down at the diminutive Linda Saunders, head of the office.
Just over five feet, always finely attired and with a proper demeanor, it had been Linda who had taken Wren from the downtown tower to join her to form a law firm. More than a few attorneys, and judges for that matter, had misjudged her calm and repectful manner and found themselves cut off at the knees by a rapier-sharp legal mind.
“Our client’s parents,” said Wren and summarized the morning’s court proceedings. “They feel their little issue is always a victim of circumstance.”
“Dimwits indeed,” agreed Linda, “They can pay our fees, I trust?” At Butler’s nod, “Well then, a new case is a new case.”
“So I’ve heard. And,” said Butler, “I hold in my hand one of the very same,” reverently laying Millie’s papers down on Sandra’s desk. “A case against Millie’s Diner,” and summarized to Linda’s inquiring look what had happened at Millie’s.
“Sounds like poppycock to me,” said Linda. “Poor Millie. Can she really afford to retain us? Or are we off to pro bono territory?”
Wren produced Millie’s check with even greater reverence and laid it upon Sandra’s desk.
“Geez,” said Linda. Then slipping the check into her pocket, “Well, now, I’ll just take charge of that. And the signed legal representation agreement?” To Wren’s guilty look, “Ah, huh. The paperwork, Butler, the paperwork. Never mind, go on,” waving him off. “Sandra, would you be so kind as to contact Millie and do the necessary?”
“Sure. Oh, and Butler, one of those messages is from the Corinne Baxter. Really, Butler, you’re such a potty-mouth today. What’s wrong with the Baxters?””
Wren shrugged, “Oh, nothing really, but they're lottery players.” To Sandra’s look of “What?” he continued: “They’re the kind of folks who treat a lawsuit like the lottery, not to get just compensation but as a chance to make a windfall, the giant-screen TV or the trip to Hawaii they’ve always wanted. It’s just kind of a minor traffic accident, a bit of whiplash, a sprained wrist and a bruise or two, but they’ve got dollar signs in their eyes.”
He stared at the phone message and sighed, Ah, well. “Bread and butter, we need bread and butter cases to keep the lights on. Right, Linda?”
“’Tis the way of the world,” she said.
He turned and headed down the hall with a wave. “Send Crystal to my office, please.”
* * *
Butler turned into what he oft referred to as his sanctum. Plopping his briefcase on a generally tidy desk, he tossed his coat onto a coat rack and opened one of the large windows that made his office bright with natural light and let uncanned air in. “Can’t do that in those downtown tombs,” he said smugly.
“Tombs?” asked Crystal McMahon, Wren’s paralegal, as she came into Wren’s office and sat.
“Indeed, Crystal, I am referring to those high-rise mausoleums in which so many of our high-priced brethren of the law find themselves entombed.”
“They regard them as prestigious addresses,” said Crystal
“Then they are wrong. And speaking of wrongs, Crystal, we have a new wrong to right.” Wren handed her the legal notice just served upon Millie. He sat as she studied the papers, listening to the sounds of the cable cars drifting up from below and pondering how next to proceed.
Crystal finished her review and looked up at Wren. “Well, could be tough on Millie, business-wise, even if this is all craparoo.” Waving the legal papers, she produced a pad and took notes. Not for the first time, Wren admired her quick grasp of all aspects of a problem, not just the legal ones, her getting right down to business. “So, standard answer, Boss?”
“Boss,” thought Wren, such an old fashioned term. Its use fitted Crystal though. She was a woman of some early failed marriage. “Married too young,” she had told Wren. “Too young to realize that what I thought was charm was really just assholery,” Ended that, worked at a variety of jobs before attending paralegal school and being hired by Linda. “Because I like her attitude,” Linda had said. “She’ll keep you in line.”
“Yes,” Wren replied to Crystal, “standard denial of all allegations...” And he went on to outline other matters to be attended to. Crystal gave a crisp salute and headed out with, “You got it, Boss.”
Confident that matters were in good hands, Butler picked up his phone and dialed his wife Rose’s cell and said, “Where are you?” when she answered.
“You know, not too long ago that would have been a nonsensical question to a person you just telephoned,” she said, “given land lines. Supermarket. How about you?”
“Just back to the office.” And he told her of the Millie affair. “She gave me a retainer check for ten grand, just like that!”
“Well, I’m not that surprised.”
“Why?” asked Butler, slightly deflated at his wife’s blasé response.
“She owns the building with the café, you know. ”
“I didn’t,” picturing thick glasses and blue wig and marveling anew at his wife’s arcane knowledge of all things City. “Since when? “
“Long time, don’t recall the details. Anyway, who’s the plaintiff?”
Butler realized he didn’t know and fumbled with papers. “A Phyllis Newcomb.”
“Hmm,” said Rose. “Why does that name sound familiar? Well, can’t place it now. But Crystal will internet search, right?
“Standard procedure nowadays.”
“Something, social columns? Nope, can’t remember. Anyway, anything special about the case, other than Millie being involved?”
“Oh yes.” Butler grinned. “For the first time in my long and distinguished career I shall be making a Motion for the Production and Examination of—”
* * *
Copyright © 2024 by Anthony Lukas
