for Perry`s Son...

The events described happened long ago "To you the words are ashes, but to me they `re burning coals."

I greeted Ms Linda Scrivner in my private office in the back of a converted farmhouse. "You seem chipper for such a miserable day. Even the ghosts of previous owners don`t seem to be stirring."

Perhaps, Ms Scrivner advised me the reason for such a cheery mood in a law office was she was not in any legal trouble. Indeed, she`d came into see me for personal advice on her writing.

"Some people think I have mystical powers. I suppose the ancient Druids believed that letters themselves had magic. So perhaps I can be of help." I replied.
"I want to be a children`s author," Ms Scrivner proudly declared.
"Now, that`s ambitious," I considered her words, "it`s far more difficult than being an author for adult material."
"How so, the language is far less complicated and the story line is shorter and less intricate," Linda Scrivner asked as she settled into the yellow chair across the desk from me.
"First you have to think with the mind of a child," I answered, "A child lives in a different world from us. It`s a world yet to be discovered or to be imagined, but it`s a world learned by reading emotions and feelings."
"How do you approach something that may or may not be real?" She asked.
"In relating to a child`s world: friends, real or imaginary, toys with a character, pets or wild animals with a human personality," I replied, "we must draw on our own experience as adults deciding what is real and what is fantasy."
"Could you give me a clue about what you mean?" she asked.
"Lets bring you back to a week after St Patrick`s Day some years ago," I started.
Linda Scrivner chuckled, "are there imaginary creatures-little people-the wee folk-in this story." Linda Scrivner laughed so heard she might have gulped. When she recovered from guffawing, she added, "Y`know," she raised her penciled eyebrows, "the wee folk, leprechauns and banshees?"
"Everything was miserable that early spring. Icy rain fell in buckets, the dampness spawned an infestation of book worms in the tomes. An old phone buried behind a stack of books, every once in a while, emitted a high - pitched whistle like ring-warning of a cheap bug adding to the feeling of oppression."
"Why was anyone bugging you?" Linda Scrivner inquired, "The lawyer on four corners is unlikely to be out to overthrow the government."
"In the glorious pre - 9 - 11 days," I observed, "the legal profession, not potential terrorists were in the cross - hairs, the subject of an inter - disciplinary investigation spearheaded by the FBI and Private Insurer`s SIUs. A story ran on someone caught for insurance fraud was on the nightly news about every night."

As I sat at my desk, I reflected that Book worms weren`t the only difficulties I had to deal with that early spring. "At the moment, who could be trusted loomed as the largest, pressing question. A long - term employee, Rose Tudor, had run off in the middle of the day." The sudden downpour distracted me. Outside rain drops as big as golf balls exploded as they fell on the driveway of the old farm house that had become my office.

The premises in the distant ex-urbs were no stranger to perfidy. Built brick by brick by Hungarian immigrants throughout the 1930s, according to local legend, the house had been barely completed when the FBI showed up and carted the couple away. They were Hungarians; Germany was their ally. In December 1941, shortly after Germany declared war on the US, the Hungarian farmer and his wife became the enemy, potential saboteurs, fifth columnists. Who could be trusted? In 1941 chances were not taken.

Weeks before Rose ran off one morning without explanation, tall lean Rose Tudor, the paralegal, in a discussion about one of my sensitive cases had spontaneously exclaimed unexpectedly that with the amount the insurers had at stake in one particular case I was handling, the insurers probably would be looking to bribe someone. "That case will make someone a big man," Rose commented.

"The insurers haven`t tried with me," I detected a look of surprise and disgust on her face. "I`m the logical one-if the insurers wanted these cases to go away."

I had not seen such a look of disgust or contempt on a face since the Real Estate Broker opened the door to admit me to this house, "After the farmer was released from wartime internment, he found no heart to return to farming," the broker apologized for the condition of the house. "He sold off the farm lands to developers but kept the residence and rented the house to," the sourest scowl spread from ear to ear, "ugh-Hippies from 1960 onward until the Hippies had completely gutted the kitchen, the bathroom and the old - fashioned steam heating, sold off the copper and wrought iron to buy drugs, and rendered the place unlivable."

"Once a pleasant farm house in the country," I remarked looking at where fixtures had been pulled from the wall, "now a derelict on a major road."
"It would give you good public exposure and you say you have the money," the Broker prodded me, "to buy-and rehabilitate the property." The Broker knocked on the plaster walls to show how sturdy they were.
Feeling the solid walls, I quipped, "It`s lucky the hippies didn`t realize that the plaster walls were loaded with copper wiring or likely the walls would have been torn down too."
"Mining for gold!" The broker made light of my remark. "The Hippies that rented the house back in the 60s and 70s into the early 80s," the broker related, "conducted daily seances to the farmer`s wife in the coal bin in the building. According to local legends, the farmer`s wife`s spirit never left. The farmer`s wife had paid the price of loyalty to some push cart country, some Nowheresville." In a whisper the Broker added, "The farmer`s wife committed suicide in detention on Governor`s Island, but left to her heirs a sold brick building with real solid plaster walls which could be yours."

Intrigued Linda Scrivner enquired, "Do you think the place simply exudes negative energy? Possibly, the premises you love inspires people to commit perfidy.

"No," I replied, "The Problem is the people, not the former farmhouse, an inanimate object which just provides a stage, a setting for their treachery. In this business, fidelity is a treasure."

Yes, loyalty was indeed a most precious commodity. In the midst of handling a series of sensitive cases, the abrupt departure of Rose Tudor, my paralegal imparted more than a mere hint of a betrayal. After a decade in my employ, Rose Tudor the paralegal abruptly left as I readied to go to court one day. She would never return.

What was Rose Tudor`s favorite expression? "If you know something about me you`ll use it against me."

You`d hear that in response to such innocent and polite questions as did you have a nice weekend? Answers to questions like that usually weren`t even really listened to. An answer to that question could take the form `we drove to Mars on Saturday and stopped off on our way back on the rings of Saturn for lunch` and still merit an hackneyed approval `That`s very nice.` What do you call her aggressive attitude toward privacy, obnoxious and offensive? I guess I was guilty of being too accepting of the mystery Rose Tudor liked to enshroud herself in.

My concern at the moment as I sat listening to gigantic balls of rain hit the pavement outside was how many other surprises did I have in store. Was Estelle, the secretary who remained, working on a resume preparing to bolt? I wondered loyalty was a sparse commodity so to was dependability.

As much as Rose Tudor professed affection for our favorite client Dr Blinders, she had proven herself undependable disappearing when I needed her most to protect Dr Blinders from himself. Late for an appointment with me on a snowy day earlier in the year in January, Blinders I knew instinctively was in trouble. Having retired young and relocated up yonder to the wilds of Essex County, Dr Blinders sold his office to a successor. Lately, regular hours were not being kept there. I smelt insurance lightning.

I yelled to Rose Tudor to get DR Blinders here. "Call him on his mobile phone!" I demanded.

I turned my back on Rose Tudor for an instant and looked at Estelle. Worry was knit on Estelle`s face. I looked to make sure my order was being carried out. Rose was gone. Had she slipped out the window? I didn`t have time to wonder what happened to Rose Tudor.

"You," I told Estelle, "you make the call. It`s Friday. Tell him he`s late. The sun is setting. Uncle Schlomo and Tante Estelle are waiting for him to light the Shabbos candles. Dr Blinders is brilliant. He should understand what all that really means: he`s walking into a trap. God knows Dr Blinders should figure it out when he sees what number the message is coming from. There`s no time to explain do it, before he`s arrested and his law suits for doctor bills turns into mush and all of us are out of jobs."

Two weeks thereabouts after Rose Tudor`s abrupt departure, short and thin with faded reddish - brown hair, Estelle, the secretary entered my private office. The hair was faded but she was spry for her reported age of 60. I drew a breath. Would she quit too? Would Estelle be much of a loss, in typing she dropped lines, in answering the phone, she failed to put important calls, through surprisingly just moments ago Estelle adroitly had put Dr Blinders` call to the absent Rose Tudor through to me-without warning Dr Blinders.

"I put Dr Blinders through to you. He had asked for The Tudor Rose," Estelle began in her raspy voice. She hesitated deliberately, studying me carefully over those moon - shaped reading eyeglasses.
"Dr Blinders," I reported the conversation in a depressed voice, "was annoyed when I got on the phone. He claimed to have been just talking to Rose. When told Rose had left two weeks ago, Blinders blurted out `missing files.`" I gritted my teeth. My heart sank. My worst fears were grounded.

Linda Scrivner was shocked. She blurted out, "That revelation must have been devastating. How did you cope with it?"
"Surprisingly," I replied, "with equanimity."

As Estelle turned on her heel to leave my room, she paused to ask with bubble gum clicking in her teeth, "That day that you had me yank Dr B here, how did you know he was going to torch his old office?"
"The signs were there," I replied, "I could say I have magical powers; the real answer is my father was Deputy Fire Chief. Office hours at Dr B`s old shop weren`t regularly kept by his successor, his successor`s billing was tied up in disputes with the insurers, and of course there was the weird behavior of Rose Tudor running off. As far as a set - up, our anti - semitic DA was a former fireman; he would have gone orgasmic: white collar arson, fire set mid - day, parochial school next door, a school kid injured by a responding fire truck. But, Rose Tudor`s weird behavior, now… "
"Yes," agreed Estelle, "in her last months here Rose Tudor`s behavior got strange. Sometimes she came in bunched her jacket around her and stared out the window."
"Exactly what was Rose Tudor looking for or waiting for out there?" I wondered aloud.

Yes, I had to push Rose Tudor to work. When I beat back an important motion in a case involving Dr Blinders` suit for medical fees insurers had withheld, Rose`s long narrow face fell in grave disappointment. I would have sworn her olive skin turned a dark, forbidding, muddy brown-in the midst of a cold overcast mid - winter day.

I explained to Linda Scrivner, "Rose Tudor and I locked glances for a full minute, staring into each other`s eyes reading each other. And I resisted downloading the communication I was receiving. I did not like the message. So, I ignored it."
"Ignored it?" Linda Scrivner pressed me.
"Maybe in growing up," I reasoned aloud, "we lose touch with the ability to communicate without words, messages sent mentally through emotions perhaps. In socialization into the modern world, we`re taught to abandon a child`s innocent tool or reasoning with the hidden capacities of the mind of a child."

As I held the incredibly favorable decision in my hand, I looked from Rose Tudor to Estelle. Perhaps not overjoyed, Estelle seemed pleased. New to the office, Estelle the Secretary accepted the news with a practical observation, "With the number of cases you have from Dr Blinders that sounds like a very good thing. Shed some light for me," Estelle asked in that raspy voice, "will there be a bonus when you win them all?"

Linda Scrivner laughed. "Did you really promise that you would hire the Battle Ship Missouri for the occasion?"

Throwing open my shades to admit some light on this miserable day, Estelle recommended, "You really have to get in touch with some of your old friends. The Tudor Rose excelled at, if only one thing," Estelle turned to glance at me, "self - promotion, taking credit where none is due, and interpersonal relations," Estelle paused, "that is often called in many circles in this profession being a yenta."
"Nothing like mixing the sublime with the earthy," I commented with gritted teeth. How much should I share with Estelle? How far could she be trusted? These were major questions at the moment.
"Rose Tudor could burrow under people`s skin, that`s true." I looked up to the ceiling, "A snitch or a," I thought for a second, "yenta-if you will-feeds on conflict, dividing friends turning them against each other. Proverbs chapter 16 verse 28." I sighed. "By the way have you seen my Bible? It disappeared just about the time Rose Tudor took off."

I shook my head the disappearance of my Bible was just another of those strange events, this glum late winter dissolving into a rainy spring.

"No but, Her Majesty, The Tudor Rose did return her keys with a note-by mail," Estelle offering the note. At my signal, Estelle read the note, "It says," Estelle looked down at the note impassively, "`I learned a lot from you.`"

Nicely put, I thought to myself. Perfidy is acknowledged-in writing no less. "Well, after she ran off when she was supposed to accompany me to court on one of Dr Blinder`s cases, I-eh," I hesitated, "I never really should have expected her to return."
"If I had been properly dressed," Estelle offered, "I`d have gone with you to court that day."
"Thanks, but that was not expected of you. That particular file," I confided, "I had never looked at, not once. Rose did all the work on it. I was furious when she refused to go-because I walked into court cold. All I needed to do is botch that case and the seas of DR Blinder`s files would have been turned in for recycling into fast food restaurant carry - out bags."
"Were you surprised-when The Tudor Rose bolted?" Estelle asked, "You know how fond she was of Dr Blinders-or professed to be."
"Ah yes, I remember whenever he came by," I recalled, "Rose Tudor pestered Blinders until he closed the door to her office-supposedly to give her an adjustment."
"With a happy ending no doubt?" Estelle suggested. "No matter we have to make sure the next Happy Ending is for us. What you need to do," Estelle looked away and paused, until I urged her to continue the thought. "Get in touch with-with your friends-just to tell them you`re still around-and in business. Start with your oldest friend Cliff Clarke-you`ve been holding back from calling him. I`ll bet he`s been waiting for your call." An impassive look peered across her face, "for St Patrick`s Day."
I sighed. "I really don`t know--."
"Mr Clarke was an official of the High Court," Estelle replied, "and I understand-eh," There was a pause, "a great help to you in your career. He saw you as a kindred spirit-a veteran in the post - Vietnam malaise willing to admit it. St Patrick`s Day was his favorite holiday. It`s a good excuse to give him a call."

I sighed. In a way Mr Clarke was a substitute father, the founder of the feast, the money that enabled the purchase of this house with a columnated front came from cases he steered here.

The columnated frontage with its distinctive red bricked Federal architectural style had been a major selling point of the house, even if the interior required extensive renovations. I had bought an empty shell and built a practice from it. In a sense with the defection of Rose Tudor I was once again left with an empty shell that needed to be re - built. If only, I pondered, my friend, Mr Clarke could come through again… however unlikely that seemed on this gloomy day …

"Around the time of Mr Clarke`s retirement the relationship cooled," I replied. To Estelle`s frown, I added, "it was my fault. I treated with him as a friend. I expressed a private, personal political position to bust Mr Clarke`s image of me as a super - patriot veteran. I`m afraid the friendship soured after that. Two kindred spirits came to be separated by a political divide over the war in the Gulf."
"Maybe," Estelle suggested, "Mr Clarke can still be-eh instrumental." Her voice ended in a question mark.
I shook my head. "I`m not sure I`m really not up to it."

"So," Linda Scrivner prodded me, "in a time of stress an individual or a group tries to relive a time of strength or triumph."

"You`ll have to be if you expect to keep me in a job," Estelle retorted as she left the room with a smile.

I looked at the phone on my desk. Lets give it a try. I recited Mr Clarke`s home number from memory, "3 - 4 - 4, - - Hmm, I believe that`s one of the new area code over there inside city limits, - - M - L - - 2 - - 4 - 1 - 1 - 0."

"Hello," that smooth but firm voice answered the phone.
"Oh, Cliffy," I opened the conversation, "I called to wish you a happy St Pat`s Day-a little late, I`m afraid."
"Counsellor," Clarke responded in a cheerful tone, "Everyday should be St Pat`s Day!" There was a sigh. "It`s a happy time but for me things at St Paddy`s day have been rather tough. I spent most of the last month in the Hospital-discharged twice-no maybe it was three times and re - admitted. On Paddy`s day itself, I was being wheeled out to the curb and, Luck of the Irish!"
"Oh really?" I asked.
"It`s Clarke not O`Reilly," Mr Clarke laughed at his own joke, "This passing intern-one of these-little leprechaunic brown fellers-stopped the orderly and in that high pitched woggish tone `Dis paw fellah`s aboot to hear attach. Wahs idio reloosed im?`" Doc lifted my pant leg and there you have it! My legs were twice their normal size. Back in the saddle again. Re - admitted."
"I`m glad," I tried to speak in a warm friendly voice, "a little leprechaun came by at the right time. Too bad he didn`t give you his pot of gold."
"Speaking of a pot of gold, how are you faring for business, my lad?" Clarke asked.
"Good," I replied in a firm voice.
"Good?" Clarke replied, "Boyo, you sure play it close to the vest. By now you should have a fancy Bentley on the driveway, a gold watch dangling on a chain and a roll of cash in a," Clarke`s voice descended into a fake whisper, "in a safety deposit box."

There was little reason to whisper I was aware of the bugs on my phone.

"Add to it a 41 - foot cabin cruiser in Center Oak Harbor and we will sail away to whatever fantasy you want," I replied, "before we put in at the safe harbor of your choice: Pilgrim State Mental Hospital, Creedmoor, Rockland State, Mid - Hudson, or Central New York Psychiatric to join the truly delusional."
"You make a joke of it, but you have become very tight mouthed," Clarke responded, "Not like you used to be when we talked."
"There`s really little to tell," I replied, "I do my work, punch a time clock and carry a brown bag to work, just like everyone else."

I looked up. I thought I heard a choke suppressing a laugh, just outside my door. For her age Estelle must have good hearing. The walls of my refuge were made of solid plaster. Yenta, I muttered to myself, now, that`s a good word, what does it mean, nosy bitch?

"Say something?" Clarke asked. "Oh well a lawyer of your talent heck ought to know the score. You know how it is, inside the Insurance Companies."
"Not really," I replied. "The enemy seems to maintain a pretty solid front."
"Oh, behind that façade, that front, that mirage of an impenetrable hierarchical army of subordinate CSRs, appraisers and claims examiners," Mr Clarke spoke in a whisper as if in confidence, "there`s a corrupt claims supervisor-with a sweaty palm ready to listen to a lawyer with a good case-most attentively."
"Maybe, that`s the way it works inside city limits," I coolly replied, "but not around here in remote ex - urbs as far as I know."
"The universal language, money, do - re - me, moolah," Mr Clarke protested, "remains the same all over even out yonder in the distant boonies-the ex - urbs you call them."
"Maybe, I`m not high enough on the totem pole for any such disgusting people to trifle with," I suggested.
"You don`t give up your secrets easily," Mr Clarke prodded me.
"It`s remarkably easy to keep a secret when there`s no secret to tell," I replied in a detached apathetic tone.
"Funny thing about the claims supervisors," Mr Clarke explained, "they prance around the office pontificating about how trustworthy, loyal, honest, obedient and dedicated to company policy, thrifty, and hard - working they are but I`d swear there aren`t a handful not on the take."
"Just add Courteous, Kind, Cheerful, Brave, Clean, and Reverent," I cracked, "and you`d have a pretty good boy scout."
"Oh, they`ll tell you how virtuous a boy scout, they are, they`ll quote scripture, they`ll recite the boy scout oath" Mr Clarke replied, "even as they`re looking for a tip."
"I`m sorry. Like I told you I punch a time card. I know nothing of such things as corrupt claims supervisors who hypocritically proclaim their own virtue," I answered the challenge, "So, I`ll hold my tongue and let you think me a fool, rather than speak and allow me to prove it."
"Abraham Lincoln?" Mr Clarke asked.
"Perhaps Honest Abe derived this line from the Book of Proverbs, where the expression goes "Even a schnook looks brainy if they`d only learn how to button their yap."
"That doesn`t sound very biblical to me," Mr Clarke expressed surprise.
"I guess it`s not very high brow like you might find in the old KJV," I answered the challenge. "My own personal translation taken from Proverbs 17: 28 is more commonplace as translations of the Bible were intended to be."
"Really?" Clarke asked.
"Well, as you said, it`s not O`Reilly. The Bible used in your church is called the Vulgata, which means it`s intended to be presented in the everyday, common, street or vulgar form of the language. Nonetheless, your version as well as the authorized version in King James might have rendered the line more eloquently than I would: "Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise: and he that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding,"
"And you can translate Biblical passages into American bull jive," Mr Clark`s voice thundered with shock and scorn, "but claim to know not of hypocritic claims supervisors exuding virtue as they solicit cash for favorable settlements." He paused then continued with a hrumph, "Even fools seem smart when they keep quiet…."
"I`m afraid there`s nothing on the subject of hypocrites or corrupt claims supervisors that I can report," I replied, "Either what you`re talking about doesn`t happen here or I`m not involved, but I can tell you one thing…"
"What`s that?"
"Happy St Patrick`s Day!" I replied.

After the call ended, I called Estelle in. "You can come out of hiding. The call is over."
"I almost peed myself the way you handled the call, without so much as laughing at Mr Clarke, shouting at him or simply hanging up," Estelle critiqued my performance.
"There is one good thing." I was overcome by resignation. "After that all, I doubt I`ll have to wish him a Happy St. Patrick`s Day ever again."

I`m sure not 15 minutes passed when the phone rang again. I heard Estelle say, perfunctorily, "I`ll be sure to tell him.".

Estelle turned to me. "You were right."
I raised my eyebrows. "I have mystical powers?"
"Perhaps," Estelle reported, "More immediately, you will not be wishing Mr Clarke another St Patrick`s Day. That was Babsy Gangaloff, Mr Clarke`s former aide. Mr Clarke died of a coronary right after hanging up with you."

Linda Scrivner was awe - struck. "Betrayed by your right - hand person, an important patron, a substitute father, ready to deliver you to your enemies, this must have been devastating; yet in the middle of all that chaos and misery you manage to rescue a client from his own duplicity. How did you accomplish that?"
"I have mystical powers. The miraculous I accomplish daily; the impossible, I`m still working on," I joked.
"And you`re still here," Linda Scrivner prodded.
"As it happened, 9 - 11 turned out to rescue the legal profession from itself," I replied, "No headlines, no federal case, no FBI. The controversial cases settled and instead of the legal profession under the microscope, everyone is."