Fiction Contest Winner: A True Legal Drama

She gets off at 10, four floors by myself. Things are going my way, the 60 square feet I call my home-away-from-home is only a corridor away.

The receptionist jumps on me like a cat.

“Mr. Grey, Mr. Maher wants to see you.” I flash the smile, “I know, I’ve already talked to him, I’ll get the brief out today.” The lies come easier than simply saying thanks. I lie about everything. I lie to people I don’t need to about things I don’t have to. I lie like other people breathe.

I keep my sunglasses on, I’m in mourning after all. Jenny jumps up when I arrive, excitable as always. I am cool – thank you valium. I know what she is saying is important, but I simply can’t focus.

“Jenny, I have a very important conference call,” I tell her. It is imperative no one disturb me until this call is over. She stares at me with a look I can’t quite place. “Just give me a couple of hours and I will take care of everything.” She continues but I walk into my office.

I am safe, I made it. My attention goes to that damn light on the phone telling me I have messages. Of course I do, but no time. I have a conference call. I lock the door and call my friend at Goldman and tell him to put me on hold. I must give the appearance that I am on a call. I slide into my chair, lean back and close my eyes. It is the first time in days I have closed my eyes. I need time to rest. Maybe I can stall long enough that everything is pushed to Monday. I can put some hours in over the weekend and get my bills in order. That’s it. I’ll just come in over the weekend, and by Monday everything will be fine.

My nose starts to run again, I stick a tissue in it so I can rest. I ignore the small drops on my collar, I’m sure they are not noticeable. Sunglasses on, I try to catch up on well-deserved rest.

Then the knock. Can’t they tell I need a little time, is that too much to ask? I am in mourning, don’t they get it? The door swings open; did I forget to lock it? Mr. Maher walks in with that guy from HR, and Bill, my mentor, the partner I work for.

“Rich,” Bill starts. My hand instinctively goes to my pocket, hoping for one more valium I may have forgotten at some point. Nothing.

“What is it Bill, Mr. Maher?” I flash the smile that has gotten me through worse things. They close the door behind them; this can’t be good. I am hoping they are here to offer their condolences. That must be it, they are here to tell me to take some more time, I knew I shouldn’t have come back so soon.

“Rich, you haven’t turned in your bills in over a month,” Bill continues. Is that what this is about? They break into my office during a conference call while I am grieving to discuss bills!

“Listen, I have to stay on this conference call,” I say as I point to the silent phone with one line in use. “We are just waiting for everyone to get on the line.” Nice, this has to work.

Bill looks at me quizzically, and asks me to remove my sunglasses. Mr. Maher stands there. I slide my glasses off and remove the tissue from my nose. The light feels like fire, I can feel it in my head burning. And why is this office so damn hot.

Mr. Maher walks over and it hits me, this is it. The house of cards has fallen. Exit the ride to the left, it is over. This is not about hours, or a missed mediation, this is about me. Bill explains how they called my parents’ house when they could not reach me, and the good news is, my father is alive. Oh, it was my father, now I recall. How did it come to this?

Then Doug, the icon, speaks. I don’t recall him ever speaking directly to me. I can’t help but notice how nice his suit is. He looks at me and says, “Do you want help?”

Time stops.

In that one moment, the days and months pass through me. An apartment bathed in filth, me alone, sheets firmly affixed to every window. I look at the tissue in my hand, covered in blood and notice the wholly unfamiliar feeling of tears falling down my cheek. I try to think of a lie, anything to get out of this, but the only word I can muster is “Yes.” Yes I want help. Yes I want freedom from a dark place I have fallen so far down into I can’t imagine getting out. Funny thing, it’s the first honest word I have spoken in as long as I can remember.

Now the tears flow freely, like the last clean thing in me is leaving. It’s the tears only the absolutely desperate can have when they give up, give up absolutely and completely.

Doug just smiles. I can’t fathom why. Does he enjoy this, seeing a crippled little associate break? He walks over, puts his hand on my shoulder and says those magic words: “I have been sober for over 20 years, and you never have to feel this way again.”

Doug talks some more, but my mind has wandered. I can’t stop thinking about how it was possible for me to live without a constant supply of drugs and alcohol. Within an hour my sister appears with a bag, and that’s how I got here, on a bus to rehab. For the first time in as long as I can remember I have what can only pass for hope. Hope that I can find a key to this prison in the darkest part of the world I have known far too long.

The sun is still up and the hum of the bus is strangely comforting. I rest my head on the window and feel the cool air as the city fades behind me. My BlackBerry buzzes in my pocket. I take a glance, no reason to be afraid anymore. It is my dealer, texting me if he should come by. Not today, no not today. I send him a little poem in reply:

I turn the BlackBerry off and slide it back into my pocket. Everything will be all right.



Richard Garbarini, an intellectual property litigation associate at Kreindler & Kreindler, is an Upper East Side bachelor who lives with two rescued dogs and an ever-ready stash of cigars. He has written poetry for many years and is currently at work on a novel he says “has to do with the law.”