Unraveled

Unraveled

by

Michael Stark

* * * * *

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY: Michael Stark on Smashwords

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Forward

This book was originally titled The Seduction. It’s undergone some editing and a title change in the past year.

MS

I

People seem to like the idea that the world may end in a cataclysm someday. Movie makers do a good job of inventing ways it could happen. Over the years I’ve watched asteroids plummet into the ocean, been swept up in the devastation of tsunamis barreling through the lowlands, and felt the thumping roar of alien feet stomping through the countryside. While the methods differed, all of them shared a single motivating premise - that of laying waste to both humanity and society.

Every year, some bright star comes along with a new way of ending it all, and if not ending it, mutating folks into another rag-tag life form that either feeds on the few remaining survivors or exists solely to destroy them.

The learned would probably paint it as a type of escapism. I suppose that’s true. The thought leaves one wondering though what we need to escape from, and why we need it so bad.

When it comes to doomsday scenarios, I give better odds on the end of days being related to something we’ve done - like dredging up a new and virulent disease from the jungles we’re destroying, or perhaps even witnessing the dawn of a new ice age from the effects of global warming.

I don’t know.

My focus is smaller, not upon society as a whole, but more so my tiny, and often inconsequential place in it. My world didn’t crash and burn. It unraveled.

Slow, like someone pulled the dangling thread on the tapestry of life. It just kept going, working its way up and turning everything loose in its wake. Fate may have worked the threads, but she forgot to tie them off.

My name is Daniel McAulay. In case you’re wondering, my last name is pronounced like it has a W stuck inside, like McAwly. I’m 37 years old. I have a daughter, a wife, and make a good living. That part at least is easy. If you ran into me on the street, what you’d see is a guy a tad over six feet, with short brown hair, a mustache and blue eyes. A friend once told me that everyone likes to think of themselves as unique or special in some way. I can’t say as I agree with that. I never have. There have been times in life where I felt like I owned the world, but just as many where it seemed like I was bumbling through it.

For much of the early part though, life was both simple and good. I graduated from the University of North Carolina with a law degree in 2003. There’s nothing much unique about that particular accomplishment. The same year saw nearly fifty others emerge from the same institution with specialties in one area or another. If there was anything extraordinary about my time, it was that I made it through with virtually no help from Financial Aid. I knew a good portion of the fifty sitting on the benches at commencement. Most had a crushing burden ahead of them to repay in thousands of dollars in both subsidized and unsubsidized loans. I might have been one of them if that route had occurred to me. It didn’t. I was raised on a farm and spent my party years in the military. The GI bill, a host of odd jobs, an innate need for hard work ground into me by my father, and helpful parents got me through those years.

That’s not to say the years were easy. They weren’t, not by a long shot. Somewhere in my past, it seems there is every job known to man. The Discovery channel has a hit show about dirty jobs. I’ve watched a smattering of episodes over the past couple of years. I have a few they can film sometime. Maybe one day, I’ll sit down, write them a note and let them know where they can find some that are absolutely filthy.

When it came time to choose a specialty, there were plenty of options. Growing up in the mountains, roaming free as a kid however, narrowed that list down considerably before I ever took a serious look at what I wanted my future to be. Something about property law just seemed… stodgy. I don’t know another word that fits the image in my mind quite as well. Criminal law had the flare of excitement tied to it until I spent some apprentice time working with a DA in Dale City, North Carolina.

I know, Dale City is not a world-wide hub of glamour and excitement. What the time accomplished however was impress upon me the crushing weight of caseloads many assistant district attorneys carried, and how many of them walked into court knowing virtually nothing about the cases they were to try until that very day. I’m not talking about the trials that make the big splashes on the nightly news, or those that were especially heinous. I’m talking about the everyday, ho-hum docket of Jimmy got caught with weed at the high school basketball game or Tammy Sue was driving without her license.

That’s why hiring an attorney often ends up in a greatly reduced sentence or even lets the defendant walk free and clear. We know the guy on the other end has spent almost no time on your case. We know that with a little research and preparation we can turn the tide easily enough. The judge wants order. The DA wants a good conviction rate. Everyone wants the docket cleared. With a little practice, landing somewhere in the middle of those needs and wants means you walk out a lot better off having given someone like me a sizeable chunk of your savings.

I decided on divorce law. It seemed a lucrative business and one that varied from client to client. I have a need to be challenged, to work out the pieces of a puzzle. Divorce law held that potential.

I ended up working for a law firm in Dade County, Florida, just outside of Miami. My mentor and boss was a man named Johnnie Wells. He was fifty years old, divorced, wealthy and ruthless. You didn’t need anyone to tell you that either. Every thing about him breathed power and intimidation. He was about five-ten. How much he weighed, I don’t know. Johnnie was neither slim nor chunky, but more like a solid piece of rock. He kept his hair cut down to a tight stubble, and when he wasn’t wearing mirrored sun glasses, had the most intense gray eyes imaginable. When Johnnie looked at you, it felt like he was rummaging around inside, picking out the pieces he wanted to use, and tossing aside the rest.

A romantic type might call his face craggy. To me it was just hard. Nothing about him looked soft or easy. He reminded me a lot of R. Lee Ermey. If the name doesn’t ring a bell, turn on a copy of Full Metal Jacket. He’s the drill sergeant.

I could write a book about my time with him, but I’ll sum it up with a couple of notes. Few of Johnnie’s cases ever made it to court. Let me rephrase that because what I mean is not what that sentence implies. Divorce is a civil matter. It always ends up in court for the simple reason that divorces are granted by a judge who hears the particulars of the case and renders the official decree on items such as property settlements, the custody of children and the like. The reality of most divorces is that the terms are decided before they ever get to the hearing, whether the parties do it themselves or hammer it out in negotiation sessions with their lawyers. When I say most, I’m talking in the neighborhood of ninety to ninety-five percent.

Johnnie handles those too. A simple, no-fault divorce takes a half a dozen forms done in triplicate and five minutes in front of a judge. The junior associates, meaning me or one of the other half-dozen lawyers who work for him usually show up in court for those. It’s a rubber stamp process. No other term comes close to describing the divorce mill that society has become.

We stick the client on the stand, ask our handful of questions, and the judge signs his name. The court makes a little money. We make our share. The client wanders off no longer married. In general, the process is simple.

Where Johnnie excels is in the other five to ten percent, those who want to argue, those who either can’t settle or refuse to, the cases that land in court where the judge makes the decision for them. That’s where he shines so brightly that if Johnnie was a star, the night sky would hold a greater brilliance than the sun at noon. When people come to him, they’re usually looking to protect their money and property. To put it bluntly, Johnnie himself serves the interests of the elite, people who have millions and don’t want it going to their partner. While those cases end up in court too, what they rarely do is go there with both parties still arguing. Johnnie calls it the art of the deal, of knowing not just the tipping point in terms of how far the other side could be pushed, but how to get them there.

His reputation carried so much weight that just the mention of his name could send another firm scrambling for negotiation time. If you had money, and wanted to remove the guesswork or needed to bring a threatening attorney to heel, you spent time in front of Johnnie explaining why your case was worth his time. I can think of no other person, living or dead, who embodied the term gravitas so well. It took more than being ruthless to create that persona though. Of the small percentage of cases that actually made it to a judge where arguments were heard, his clients usually came away with close to everything they wanted. Property and dollars aside, they also got the satisfaction of watching their ex be raked over enough coals to fuel Mount Vesuvius.

Nothing was sacred to Johnnie Wells. If you stepped into the arena with him, it wasn’t hardball you were playing. You needed to don your helmet, your armor, gird your loins and come prepared for battle against the Master. Notice I said the Master, not a master. In his case, the word deserves the status of being a proper noun.

I could have been just one of a string of junior attorneys he hired to do research for him. For some reason though, he took a liking to me. He started introducing me as his protégé. I never felt up to the description. Even years later with scores of cases lying in the dust behind us, his tactics still shocked me. Like I said, there was nothing sacred to Johnnie. By the time he called a hostile witness to the stand, he knew everything there was to know about them, even things they had forgotten. By the time he was through with them, their credibility was in tatters. Whatever corroborating testimony they had to offer was more often than not, lost in the sea of scum where he left them floating.

He knew it too. I learned to watch his face when he walked back to the counsel table after grilling a witness - even the ones where the questions seemed perfunctory. Johnnie layered his attack in such a way that no one really understood where he was going until he got there. There was nothing simple about him or his demeanor in court. Even the bland, standard fare type of questions left opponents squirming because Johnnie always had a reason for what he did, and no one, not even people who worked for him knew the full strategy until it played out.

It was his habit of shooting a deceptive little wink that clued me in on the things to watch, the testimony that just laid another block in his foundation or a fatal mistake made by the opposition. Anyone else watching wouldn’t have noticed. Johnnie saved his theatrics for the debate. The wink was little more than a blink with no facial expression associated with it. It just came from one eye instead of both like a real blink. He never looked at me afterward either. It was his way of saying, pay attention. I did, for the sheer mental exercise of trying to figure him out more than anything.

Two years into my time with him, Johnnie introduced me to his ex-wife. That same little flick of an eyelid came when he turned to me and said, Daniel, this is Linda.

She was a small woman, attractive, lost somewhere in her thirties and carried the dusky and exotic skin so common among many in south Florida. Her hair was long, past her shoulders and swirling in soft, brown curls. She offered a beautiful smile full of perfect teeth and flashing eyes when she shook my hand. Past that, she could have been a walking advertisement for the little black dress she wore. It neither clung to her nor hung about her, but seemed to have a life of its own and moved with her in a way that breathed comfort and sensuality. Other than the fact that I was suddenly speechless and felt like I’d been thrown back into the third grade, there was nothing special about the moment. I had work to do and excused myself after a couple of minutes of small talk between the three of us. I was curious though, about that wink.

I had the chance later that day after everyone else had left. Low, afternoon sunlight poured in the window behind him when I walked in the door, silhouetting his figure in a golden spray that looked almost angelic. I edge around his desk where I could see him better.

What was up with the wink earlier, when your ex-wife was here?

He gave me one of his sardonic smiles. She likes you. She’s a good woman. You two could hit it off.

The obvious question was too obvious, yet I had to ask. If she’s such a good woman, why is she your ex?

He paused in the middle of lighting a cigarette. "You not learned anything from me or this business yet, Danny-boy? Everyone lies. Everyone fucks around. I saved myself millions by getting rid of her when I did.’

He bent over to touch flame to tobacco. Besides, he said when he looked up. The business she’s in is a fuck-fest. I know. I’ve run enough of them through the wringer. It’s just a matter of time. I like to think of it as a preemptive action. Hanging around for the fireworks isn’t worth it, either in terms of dollars or pussy.

He waved expansively. I get enough of the latter to not have to worry about that. Hell, half the bitches that walk through the door play the pussy game from the get-go.

I blinked. The pussy game?

Yeah, he said. The eye game, the little hints like I can help you if you can help me. It is bullshit and transparent.

I thought a long moment before I said anything. When I did, it came out slow. Well, Johnnie, it may be bullshit but I think you partake now and then.

He laughed, a hard, guffawing sound that seemed better suited for a drunk in a bar. THINK? You think I partake? Of course I do. The question is never about getting a little now and then but when and with whom.

You don’t see that as a conflict of interest? You don’t think it’ll land you in hot water with the bar association some day? I asked incredulously.

His face turned hard. I’ve had more knob-jobs in this office than most men will ever have in their entire lives. I’ve had trite little whores making creases in their $1000 shoes to get down on their knees and play throat hockey with my dick. It’s all about money Danny. They want it, and they want it bad. They know I can get it for them. Not one of them would testify to an ethics commission. They’re happy playing with the money I got for them, even if they thought swallowing a little jizz helped them get it.

I’d been around Johnnie Wells long enough to have heard him talk about people in the most disparaging way. I knew he held most in contempt. Even so, the arrogance was irritating. He knew my background. We’d talked about it often, particularly in relation to how different life in Miami was to life on a farm in the backwoods of North Carolina. I’d told him before that it was like living in separate countries, that there were places left in the world where people had a few morals. He’d scoffed, saying that simple people had more morality because they had nothing else.

There were times when I needed him to understand that wasn’t always the case.

Sounds like Linda had more to worry about than you, I said, staring down at my coffee.

Sure she did. I fucked around on her from day one. The bottom line is that Linda was a losing proposition.

So things like love, companionship, and growing old with someone don’t mean anything to you? I asked.

Yeah, they do. They’re concepts for the weak, he replied. Women are cunts, Danny. That’s not a knock on them. It’s simple fact. What I mean by it is every one of them has got something most men want - kind of like rich kids growing up with money. They get used to the idea, get to the point where they feel just having a hole between their legs makes them special. It’s not their fault. Guys beat that feeling into them from the time they’re ten years old. If it ain’t Louie on the playground, it’s some other dick for brains falling all over his feet trying to get laid.

He drew deep on the cigarette and blew a plume of gray smoke across the room in my direction. A perfect smoke ring followed it.

I’m not cheap. If you want me off my ass, you gotta have a lot of money at stake when you walk through my door. When a woman comes in here, she’s been pampered, lived high and good for a while. She’s used to the Botox treatments that keep her looking twenty-something instead of forty-something, the personal trainers that keep her ass high and tight, and the paid help that take care of the unimportant shit. She’s wearing more money than the average person has in their savings account. She’s used to being hit on, used to feeling like she’s got something special. I never make it an issue. Once one starts the crap though, I let it go long enough to know whether or not she’s smart enough to pull it off.

He frowned at me. I don’t like dumb people. I don’t deal well with arrogant or demanding people. If she fits any of those descriptions, I tell her what I’m going to do. If she doesn’t like what I tell her, there are plenty of lawyers out there. I invite her to find another. Now and then, one comes in with some real fear and feeling like she’s only got one thing to trade. If she’s got the right look about her, yeah, then maybe I do her and her case. Either way, I get them what they want. That’s the key Danny, don’t lose, ever. Do it right and you’re talking a win, win situation.

I sat back and shook my head. I’m trying to follow your logic here. There are a couple of things that don’t make sense.

He gave a nod of approval. That’s why I hired you, to find the inconsistencies. Shoot.

I ticked them off on my fingers. First, how can Linda like me? I’ve never met her before today. Second, if everyone is like that, then what makes anyone good, much less makes a woman a good woman?

The seat beneath him creaked as he leaned back to prop his feet up on the desktop. Johnnie had a way of sinking into that chair as if he were molding his body to it. I didn’t blame him. The thing was made of Italian leather and had enough padding to serve as a bed if need be. A thin column of gray smoke rose in front of him, pencil straight for about two feet then split into a swirling mass of smoke. The effect was odd with the yellow sunlight as a backdrop. It made him look as if he had a golden wreath wrapped about his head.

First, we have a correction, he said. I swear. You should know better. You have met her before. She drops by the office now and then. You’ve seen her. What you’ve never done before, is spoken to her. That occurred today.

You’re mincing words, I said. You know what I meant.

No, I’m not. It may seem a technicality, but it is the literal truth. Remember who you’re talking to Danny-boy: But to answer your question, you first need to understand what I mean by like. Linda is curious about you. She finds you interesting.

I looked at him in surprise. She said that to you?

She didn’t have to, he said in a matter of fact tone. As for your second point, Linda has a good heart. She’s thoughtful, caring, and smart. She’s good for somebody like you.

What’s somebody like me? I asked, not sure what would come out of him.

You still believe in people. You and her, you’d have a good chance of keeping that bullshit alive between you. It’s a smarmy, eye-rolling thought, but fuck, I guess someone has to do it.

He paused long enough to flick ashes toward the trashcan. I lost my bet though.

What bet?

His lips twisted into something like a smile.

Ask her about Thomas Kincaid some day. He’s an acquaintance. We wager amongst ourselves on different things.

Like? I prompted.

He pulled on the cigarette. Smoke billowed in the waning light.

We bet on people, on what they will do given the chance and a reason to, let’s say, be immoral. Tom has a mind that people will do anything for the right amount of money.

I rolled my eyes. I’m not sure I want to know any more.

He waved his hand. The details aren’t important, except maybe for this bet. He knows her. He thought she was exceptionally tight on her moral compass. He called me on my wedding day to offer a million dollars at even odds that she would never have an affair while she was married. You know how I feel about such things.

Whoa, stop right there, I said holding up my hand. ‘You bet that your wife to be would fuck around on you?"

He gave me an innocent look. Why wouldn’t I? It’s a safe bet these days. Woman like Linda has all kinds of temptation. Hell, every man I ever been around with her acts like he would sacrifice an arm, leg, maybe even a testicle to get in her panties. At the time, she worked in a hospital. People there fuck like rabbits. I don’t know if it’s seeing death so often or what but those people got a whole different way of thinking about things like that.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, even from Johnnie Wells.

You lost the bet?

Yeah, he said. I did.

You sure about that?

He gave me a solemn look.

Yes. I’m sure.

The problem with Johnnie was that he was rarely wrong. He made it a point not to be. The best way of incurring his wrath I’d learned early on. It wasn’t arguing with him, nor presenting him with details he didn’t expect and didn’t want. It was coming to the table with an I don’t know stuck somewhere in the information you were about to relate. Give him an evasive statement, and Johnnie Wells would rip two new holes in your backside. Those who repeated the mistake were often looking for another job the next day.

Teaching the do’s and don’ts