The Choice (24 page)

It was a thirty-minute drive from the courthouse to Dusty's office. The law firm of Jenkins and Lyons, P.C., was located in a modern, three-story building at the corner of a busy intersection. Dusty had clerked for the firm the summer after his second year in law school at Northwestern and received a job offer upon graduation. Five years later he became a partner; however, at Jenkins and Lyons partnership status didn't change the fact that orders issued by the two senior partners were obeyed with minimal opportunity for debate. Dusty parked in his designated spot and rode the elevator to the third floor.

“Mr. Lyons wants to see you,” the receptionist said as soon as Dusty walked through the double doors. “He's in conference room three.”

Dusty walked down the hallway to one of the firm's five conference rooms. Seated at the head of the table was fifty-five-year-old Fred Lyons, a bear of a man with a reputation for mauling the other side of a lawsuit into submission. Also present was Mike Gelwicks, a senior associate; and Bruce Mack, a first-year lawyer who barely knew his way to the courthouse.

“Where've you been?” Lyons barked when Dusty came into the room.

“In court. I didn't have a meeting with you on my calendar.”

“That's because I scheduled it an hour ago.”

Turning to Mike, Lyons said, “Show Dusty what we've got. Put it on the screen.”

Mike hit a few buttons on his computer and a list of names appeared.

“These are the Dexadopamine clients in Georgia we've signed up with in the past three months,” the associate said.

Lyons turned to Dusty. “Do you know what this means?”

“A lot of Dexadopamine was sold by nutritional supplement stores in the Southeast, and our TV ad is working.”

“Yes. There are truckloads of rednecks with livers that are going to go haywire in the next twelve to twenty-four months. With this many cases, we're going to run into problems obtaining leave of court to appear as out-of-state counsel.”

Dusty replied, “We'll get local attorneys who—”

“Will take a big bite out of our revenue.”

Not sure what Lyons had in mind, Dusty waited.

“Is your Illinois law license still current?” Lyons continued.

“Yes.”

“Bruce tells me there is reciprocity between Illinois and Georgia without a waiting period for a lawyer with your experience.”

“You want me to apply for admission to the Georgia bar?” Dusty asked.

“And move to Atlanta to manage the cases for the next three or four years. I know you've split with your wife, so there's nothing holding you here.”

Dusty looked at Mike and Bruce. They both had shocked expressions on their faces at the latest revelation of what a lawyer's life at Jenkins and Lyons could be like.

“Can we talk in private?” Dusty asked the senior partner.

“Out,” the senior lawyer barked at the other two men, who hurriedly left the room.

As soon as they were gone, Lyons spoke. “Dusty, it will be worth your while. Jenkins and I will double your partnership percentage on the revenue generated by the Georgia cases. All you'll have to do is work the Dexadopamine files. If you pick up a few other cases, it will be gravy. Your caseload here will be redistributed, and we'll protect your work credit at time and a half when the cases go to trial or settle. People who took a lot of this Dexa stuff will die within the next year or so, and the number of new claims will dry up. Once you've wrapped up everything in Georgia, you can come back here and work with Adam.”

Adam Valaoras was the best of the next generation of trial lawyers in the firm. Working on his cases was the closest thing the firm offered to a guaranteed income.

“When do I need to decide?” Dusty asked.

“How long do you need?”

Dusty glanced down at his watch, then looked back up at Lyons.

“That's enough time. I'll do it.”

Lyons grinned. “Excellent. You've got to be a risk taker to make it as a plaintiff's lawyer.”

SEVENTEEN

S
andy Lincoln glanced at the old-fashioned clock on the rear wall of the classroom. The clock was a holdover from years before when Sandy had sat in the same room and listened to Mrs. Brooks speculate on why Harper Lee never published a second novel.

Sandy finished reviewing her lesson plans for AP English and turned off her laptop. After almost three decades as a teacher, she'd refined the way she taught high school English to a level of excellence that resulted in student teachers from the nearby community college begging to be assigned to her classroom. Sandy slid the computer into a brightly colored tote bag. A slender black girl with short hair stuck her head through the open door.

“Ms. Lincoln, could I talk to you for a minute on the way to cheerleading practice?”

“Sure, Candace. Let's talk as we walk.”

Sandy slipped the tote bag over her shoulder and joined the student in the hallway. They walked rapidly toward the gym. Even at fifty-one, Sandy didn't have any trouble keeping up with the long-legged girl. Today Candace wanted to ask Sandy's advice about the topic of a research paper in her AP American history class.

“There should be a manageable amount of information available about influential women who lived during Reconstruction,” Sandy said after Candace laid out her idea. “Too often students pick a topic that's so broad it's hard to develop a thesis and effectively support it.”

“Would you be willing to look at my first draft?” Candace asked.

“No,” Sandy replied.

Candace glanced at her in surprise.

“I'd be willing to look at your second draft.”

“Okay,” Candace sighed.

They walked down a short flight of steps to the lower level of the school.

“How are you feeling?” Sandy asked. “I don't want you to have another hamstring injury this year.”

“A lot better. It's amazing how much difference the stretching exercises make. I can almost lean backward and touch my hands to the floor before starting a backflip.”

Cheerleading had changed a lot since Sandy and her teammates clapped their hands, turned a few cartwheels, and yelled catchy cheers. Candace and the varsity cheerleaders were gymnasts who practiced on thick foam pads to minimize the possibility of injury and dancers who performed choreographed routines that lasted several minutes. A lot of the people who came to the football stadium on Friday night wanted to see the cheerleaders as much as the team on the field. To them, the football game was a backdrop to the artistry on the sidelines.

They entered the gym. Sandy had coached the varsity cheerleaders at Rutland High for so long that the children of some of the girls on her first squad had attended a junior camp the previous summer. Several girls were already stretching and loosening up. Candace skipped ahead to the locker room so she could change into her practice uniform. Sandy laid her tote bag on one of the bleachers and went into the basketball coach's office. A corner of the office was her designated space. It contained a small filing cabinet, a rack of instructional DVDs, and a gold-plated whistle one of her squads had given her when the team won a state championship in their classification.

John Bestwick, the basketball coach, was sitting behind his desk with his feet propped up and reading a magazine. John had played guard on a small college team. The brown-haired coach with an infectious smile wasn't very tall, but he'd been very quick on the dribble and had a slashing move to the basket. He'd even been able to dunk a basketball if he got a running start. John's ability to dunk ended about the same time as his marriage. Not long after his divorce, he accepted the job at Rutland. As was the case with more than a few eligible males in Rutland within five years of Sandy's age, rumors flew about the possibility of romance between her and the coach. The fact that they shared an office for a few minutes a day added fuel to the fire. From Sandy's point of view, there wasn't even a spark.

“Don't barge in on me like that, Sandy,” the coach said, tossing the magazine on his desk. “You know Dr. Vale is always lurking around wanting to catch me goofing off.”

“Are you goofing off?”

John pointed at the magazine.

“Professional research.”

Sandy leaned closer. The magazine was a special edition about the upcoming college basketball season.

“Are you coaching a college team on the side?” she asked. “If you have that much free time, you need to teach another section of tenth-grade remedial math.”

“No, but Jeff Ayers has a shot at a college scholarship, and his parents are expecting me to advise him. I want him to join an up-and-coming program.”

Sandy took her whistle from its hook and draped it over her neck.

“You're always thinking about your players first. I apologize.”

“Thanks.” John grinned. “I'm glad I've made such a good impression. Hey, when basketball season rolls around, are your girls going to do another hip-hop thing like the one they performed last year? It really got the guys fired up.”

“We'll have something special,” Sandy promised. “Dede Simms is going to help choreograph the dance routines for basketball season. You know how talented she is. Don't worry, we'll do our part in getting a crowd out to cheer the team.”

“Do that and I'll buy you a steak dinner at Aaron's.”

“A gift card would be nice,” Sandy said with a smile.

Fending off Coach Bestwick was easier than grading a multiple-choice grammar test. Sandy could relax around him because he never pushed too hard. Other men who'd pursued her didn't take rejection so cordially.

Sandy returned to the gym. There were twelve varsity cheerleaders and eight girls on the junior varsity squad. This year two members of the varsity squad were Hispanic and two were black. Rutland's ethnic mix had changed dramatically over the past twenty-five years. When Sandy was a student, there were black and white students with a rare additional minority. Due to a large influx of men and women from Mexico, Guatemala, Costa Rica, Honduras, and other parts of Central America, there was a rapidly growing group of Hispanic students. Some of the new immigrant students excelled in school; others struggled. For Sandy, the change gave her fresh opportunities to speak Spanish.

Sandy blew her whistle. The girls quickly gathered in a semicircle and sat at her feet.

“Who's missing?” Sandy asked.

“Meredith,” one girl piped up.

The gym door opened, and a petite brunette with a large pack strapped to her back entered the room.

“Sorry, Ms. Lincoln,” the captain of the squad called out. “I was helping Billy Wilson with a chemistry problem—”

“I don't want to hear it,” Sandy said, holding up her hand. “You know what time practice starts. After you change and loosen up, do five wind sprints.”

“Billy Wilson is thick as a brick,” a girl sitting close to the front whispered in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “He doesn't know the difference between the symbols for carbon and oxygen.”

“We're not here to discuss Billy Wilson's knowledge of chemistry,” Sandy said. “Break into groups of four and finish stretching. I want every muscle and tendon in your bodies loose and ready. We're going to wow them this week with a synchronized tumbling routine.”

The girls chatted while they got ready. The camaraderie among the group was fairly solid. To discourage cliques, Sandy made the girls spend a lot of time on team-building activities. The fact that they competed as a group, not as individuals, helped. And Sandy had a zero-tolerance policy for cattiness. If Sandy caught a whiff of gossip between teammates, the offending party had to apologize to the individual and then to the whole squad. Sandy's zeal in this area was reinforced by a written pledge signed by every girl who made the team.

Sandy drew up the new routine on a large whiteboard. Meredith finished her wind sprints and trotted over to her.

“I apologize for being late,” she said, huffing and puffing. “I was tutoring Billy so we could go out Friday night after the game.”

Billy Wilson was a running back on the football team. He came from a well-to-do family and seemed like a decent young man. But Sandy didn't trust him with Meredith.

“Where are you going?”

“A party at his parents' lake house.”

“Meredith—” Sandy started.

“Mr. and Mrs. Banneker are going to chaperone,” Meredith added. “Billy's parents are going to be out of town and couldn't do it.”

Whenever Sandy heard about students going to a party at the lake, it was hard not to react.

Meredith studied the diagrams. The girls on the team were identified by their initials. Meredith pointed to the lines and arrows that laid out the final, climactic sequence of stunts.

“Do you think Alita can do this?” she asked, referring to one of the Hispanic girls.

“I want to give her a chance.”

Sandy called the girls together and went over the routine with the entire group. Meredith and Candace demonstrated the different stunts. It had been years since Sandy had put on gym clothes. It was better for the girls to learn the moves from their peers than wonder if Ms. Lincoln was going to attempt a handstand and end up in a crumpled heap on the floor.

An hour and a half later, the girls were on their way to learning the routine. The most shaky spot was the sequence Sandy gave to Alita, a junior with short dark hair, black eyes, and a compact, muscular build. Alita's strength was her weakness. She emphasized power over grace when she needed to combine the two in equal measure. Sandy pulled her to the side.

“Hold your hand like this,” Sandy said, demonstrating. “And let your body unfold like a flower, not pop open like a knife.”

“I saw the way Meredith did it,” Alita replied. “I'll get it right.”

Alita moved away and went through the sequence again while Sandy watched.