Law And More

Double Wide

SHORT SHORT FICTION by Jane Genova

His father, himself a recovered alcoholic, had cut off contact six years ago.  He realized his son's unusual behavior was not simply an early phase of sobering up. 

Since then, through the legal grapevine, he found out that "it" kept getting worse.  Not only was the once-golden-boy living in and practicing law out of a double wide in Warwick, Rhode Island.  He was billing his legal services according to an elaborate formula of what clients could afford and what he professionally assessed as fair.  Recently, there was more. Like Alcoholics Anonymous co-founder Bill Wilson, he was taking in drunks into his own "home," that is, the double wide.  Two got into a knife fight.

At AA meetings, the son would start his story with "I never had it better."  By 2008, many other lawyers, who were unemployed and overwhelmed with debt, came to agree with him.  By 2009, there were 20,000 out there who never had it worse.  First there was grudging admiration, then awe that he landed on his feet with a successful law practice, with such little overhead. 

His father couldn't handle this either.  Maybe that's what killed him in April.   

Manhattan Bunker

SHORT SHORT FICTION by Jane Genova

They watched the conference room, especially when the equity partner called The Fuhrer entered.  The Fuhrer's administrative assistant [AA] would not allow the schedule for the conference to be public any more.  So that's the only crumb of information that dropped from the table.  The AA was erroneously called The Nazi Guard.  Actually, she was a triple agent, available to anyone who could help her twin daughters get into an Ivy League college.  Not especially cagey, she was easy to fool.  She tipped them off that there would be an urgent meeting around 7:30 A.M. the day after next.

One of them went out of the building with his disposable cell phone that had no contract.  He called Abovethelaw.com [ATL] with the tip about the urgent meeting.  Layoffs would be decided.  The only question, he confidently informed ATL, was how many associates and how many of them would be five-years and up. The deed done, he treated himself to candy from those transparent tubes.  He hit the chocolate-covered almond slot hard, again and again. Comfort food.  Article in THE NEW YORK TIMES said everyone was doing that, including paying for premium brands.

The Fuhrer had better Ivy League connections than they did.  He had planted the rumor with the AA.  Actually, it was in an off-site conference room, in the firm's accountant's office, that the cuts were decided. 

As the tipster was re-entering the building, he saw the tears.  It had happened that fast.  He hoped that he wouldn't cry.  It dawned on him that he was shrewd to disguise his identity with ATL since his information was wrong.