Part 7
The rules remained the same in Criminal Law. There, my cubicle was identical to the one I had occupied in Wills and Probate. My duties were the same. I began by proofreading correspondence, then moved up to proofreading legal documents.
Now, of course, I had a better idea of what to look for – consistency and accuracy, as well as typos, additions, and omissions. Weeks would pass before I would find anything substantive to report. That was good for the firm, but it was boring for me.
I began to worry that the boredom would cause me to drift off and miss something. It did. As I had expected, I was called onto the carpet for it. I did the only thing I could: I apologized and promised to be more careful in the future. I also asked to be allowed to drink a cup of coffee at my desk. My request was denied.
That night, Paul and Dennis dropped by my apartment. I was startled to hear the doorman tell me they were there, but I was desperate for someone to talk to, so I invited them up. At this point, I wasn’t so sure being fired wouldn’t be a blessing.
“Don’t tell me. You heard through the grapevine that I’m out on my ear as soon as Mr. Hodges returns from the West Coast,” I greeted them.
“No. Are you?” Dennis asked with grave concern.
“No, but I wish I were. What brings you two here?”
“What kind of mistake did you make?” Paul wanted to know.
“I missed a statement that a videotape was documentary evidence when, in fact, the defense team intends to use it as demonstrative evidence.”
The tape was a re-enactment of the crime, created by the defense team to show how the crime might have happened. So, of course, it was demonstrative. Only if the tape showed the actual crime being committed would it be documentary.
“Oh, I remember that one! I nearly missed it, myself,” Dennis said.
“That one?” I asked in disbelief. “Do you mean we aren’t editing actual documents?”
“They were actual documents five or ten years ago,” Paul said.
“They’re testing us,” Dennis added.
“That’s all we’re doing? We’re not contributing to the firm’s case load?” I asked.
I could feel my temper flaring. I was about to go on the warpath. Against whom was a matter of conjecture at that point. In reality, I could go up against no one, unless, of course, I fancied myself living on the sidewalk.
“That’s when I started drinking,” Dennis said. “Nearly made a wreck of myself before I woke up. Don’t start drinking, please.”
“That’s when I started cruising chicks at the bar every night,” Paul added.
“No, thank you, Paul. I have no desire to cruise chicks,” I told him.
He chuckled. “Well, there are men there, too, you realize.”
“Most of whom look like Stone Face’s son,” I snarled.
“They might be,” Dennis offered.
“Nah! Who would have her?” Paul laughed. “No, Miss Cervantes, the answer is not turning to drink or sex. Now, tell us: What is your nickname?”
“I told you: My name is Esperanza.”
Paul shook his head to let me know he did not believe me. “With a name like Esperanza, you surely have picked up a nickname along the way.”
“I have a better idea. Why don’t you tell me how to stay awake and alert as we proofread document after document.”
Paul removed a small bottle of pills from his pocket and poured them into his hand. “Better than coffee. If you’re interested, I can give you the name of the doctor who prescribes them.”
“Meaning they’re illegal?”
“Or just plain dangerous when taken everyday,” Dennis added.
“Nah! I’m fine!” Paul declared. “Just don’t mix it with caffeine or else you’ll turn into a nervous wreck.”
“Let me think about it,” I told him.
In all honesty, I was thinking seriously of resigning and going home. After all, I could practice law anywhere – and I would have to pass the bar exam in any state - or the District of Columbia.
Home was Dennison, Texas, a small town in cattle country between Dallas and the Oklahoma line. My mother had taught the third grade since she had finished college at North Texas State in Denton, just down the road. Then, it had been a state teacher’s college. Now, it was a university. My dad had been a lawyer, which is why I first had been attracted to the law. He had been killed in a terrible pile-up on I-35 when I was seven years old.
If I went home, I could get a job with a firm that specialized in real-estate law. Each spring, the farmers came to town to refinance their land in order to be able to afford to grow their crops. Usually, those crops were milo, hay, and other things they could feed their cattle through the winter months. It would not be an exciting practice, but it would include enough nasty divorces, people buying their first homes, and hopeful partners wanting to incorporate a new business to make life interesting.
And I could hope to get on with such a firm. Mac Dennison, a descendent of the town’s founder and my dad’s former partner, had told me to call him if I decided to come back home.
I took up the receiver and dialed his number. It was ten o’clock in Washington but only nine o’clock in Dennison. Sure enough, he sounded like he was awake, and a television set was playing in the background.
“Mac, this is Sperry. Do you think I could come home?”
“Absolutely, Sperry. Let me know when your flight’s getting in, and I’ll meet you at DFW.”
~
TO BE CONTINUED
(c) 2008, Virginia Tolles, All Rights Reserved
