***** Writer's note: This incorporates the editing suggestions several of you have made. Hopefully, the changes do indeed make the reading more pleasurable and remove the occasional, distracting, WTF moments a couple of you suffered. Thanks for the suggestions.
SLEEPOVER
The last five days had been real nut-busters. Spencer and Jack both ended the workweek, suffering from total burn-out. Neither partner made any progress on the new case, leaving them frustrated and cranky-as-hell with hair-trigger tempers.
Spencer spent most of his days researching the uses of 'asset forfeiture' in Oregon Courts. He hated that particular brand of tedium; but, it was his job to figure out what a pretrial motion to release assets—specifically, enough to cover costs for a legal defense--might look like. Hitting nothing but dead ends, Spence was getting antsy.
Even though
Jack's right, the client's got a right to a defense; we've got a right to get paid. No joy there! I can't find any Oregon case law that suggests an attorney had a right to get paid. Although everyone seems to agree that the accused had a right to a defense.
As for Jack, he spent countless hours pouring over the public records listing information on their new client. The guy's name was Paul Traynor. An Internet search confirmed he was the principal of a local high school and had been there for almost twenty-years. Traynor had no criminal history. A LEDS search had provided no outstanding warrants. Hell, the guy hadn't even gotten a parking ticket in the last twenty years.
LinkedIn made him sound like the replete workaholic with almost nothing but professional contacts. He had authored several professional articles on Public School Administration, mostly in the area of keeping bright but dissatisfied students in school long enough to graduate.
His Facebook page featured a picture of him, one of Chelsea in a bright summer dress, and one of his wife Wendy. There was also a family picture of the three of them, about a year old. No pets, no hobbies listed, and the only non-professional interest listed was what Traynor described as 'high fidelity flight simulations' on a PC.
All-in-all, their client appeared to be Mr. Squeaky Clean. That was the good news, great news for the accused and the firm defending him. Paul Traynor public persona was exemplary, the perfect model of a devoted husband, father, and educator. A red, white, and blue flag-waving American solid citizen—except for one small snafu: the existence of a rather damning video tape in the possession of the Lincoln County District Attorney's Office.
Other than that, the man's a saint. Boringly uninteresting!
Jennifer Grant hadn't called them back this week, which was fine. The Practice wouldn't do much with her firm until the first real meeting with the client or clients, depending on how it went. That was still a week away.
Last but not least, Jack had finished up his workload by reviewing the video again.
TGIF! It's finally Friday and the office is finally fucking closed; thank god for small favors.
Jack glanced at his watch,
Almost seven in the evening.
He was parked across the street from the Aikido Dojo where Nikki and MacKenzie practiced. His tie was off hanging on the Jeep's mirror, and his shirt was opened two buttons. Leaning back against the headrest with his eyes closed, he sat there listening to the soundtrack from Top Gun.
Jack's fingers tapped the wheel absentmindedly. He wasn't really absent, merely lost in thought. Reviewing in his mind's-eye the new client's tape, Jack was unsettled by how much seeing the evidence tape had disturbed him again.
Is it sex with a child? 'Young Woman',
he corrected himself.
Sex with a daughter or sex with someone on the internet watching?
He couldn't shake the images and his cock had never really gone totally soft. Even now, it lay heavily down one pant leg, thick with need. He ran his fingers gently down its length.
Damn!
More than most men, Jack enjoyed an erection. Men like the feeling of it, the heaviness of the flesh, the sense of maleness. Jack liked the fact that when he had an erection his mind seemed to shut the fuck up.
Still, I don't like why it's happening to me right now. It's because of the damn tape.
The evidence tape stirs something in me. It seems to arouse something in everyone who views it. Whispers to something old, primal, secret and hidden...suppressed. It isn't a particularly nice something. That tape is some kind of incitement to act. It's like watching an incantation of a spell. You need desperately to stop watching before the words end.
The problem is that my brain has no fucking OFF switch! There's no 'delete file' button. Evidently, there's not even a PAUSE switch.
Fortunately, he wasn't so distracted that he missed Nikki and Mac exiting the large Japanese-style double doors of the Dojo. As soon as he spotted them, Jack beeped the horn; turning, they waved, running the Jeep laughing and out of breath, their white, traditional Aikido 'dogi' shirts and black practice-pants flapping in the evening coastal breeze.
"Hi, Uncle Jack," Mac panted, sliding into the seat next to him. A blond flury of elbows and knees, Nikki clambored past them into the rear seat.
"Hi, Mac; how was your day, guys?" he asked. "Or should I say ladies or 'young ladies'?"
"It was great!" Mac answered excitedly. "We watched Sensei fight a woman. It was a lesson. She's short and fast; he's tall, strong and, a lot larger than her. But, that doesn't matter in Aikido."
Jack was intrigued,
Now, that's a hell of an answer for an eighteen-year-old.
"Oh...what does matter, Mac?"
Mac's eyes took on a dreamy look for a moment. "Purity of heart," she breathed the words, reverently. Suddenly, her tone became passionate. "Purity of action!" The fervor in her voice made the hairs on his arms stand on end.
"What exactly does that mean for an attorney? Put it into non-Aikido words, please?" He'd meant it as a tease, but he was actually curious.
The focus in her eyes returned, her answer calm and assured. "Pure intention, pure action, purity of heart and mind. Stillness, while everything about you moves. You find your center, your
hara
, place of stillness."
"It almost sounds like ballet. Or some form of dance," he thought out loud.
Mac glanced over at him, appraising him intently. The intensity of her examination faded into a smile. "It is, Uncle Jack! They're all the same, sorta. In Aikido, we have practice forms called 'kata'. Ballet is concerned with forms as well; yet, the movement is always the same. The intention is perfection. Another form of dance, at least modern dance, is also about movement; but, pure movement without anticipation and without regret. There is no intention."
Patiently, MacKenzie continued, as if she were a sensei instructing a novice student. "In Aikido, you simply breathe into the movement. The movement is called 'kokyu ryoku'. Breath and movement become one. Aikido is a kind of a secret knowledge and, based on the knowledge, is a way of doing. That 'way of doing' is movement in combat."
Introspective, she paused for several seconds. "But, some sensei teach there is one other level; it is 'movement in non-combat'. Once you're good enough, you leave the knowledge behind and only the doing remains. That's pure Aikido. The pure movement. The pure doing. Mastery."
"'Mushin nagara'. Having no mind, you simply flow! Like water." MacKenzie finished her thought.
Nikki broke in, enthusiastically, "Oh, Daddy, you should see Mac dance; you really should! When MacKenzie dances, it's like watching her practice Aikido. It's really hard to explain, except no one gets thrown around the room. I mean, all she does is laugh and move. Same thing happens with Aikido, but different. MacKenzie keeps laughing and moving, but everyone else ends up sprawled on the floor."
In the silence that followed, the moment had vanished; the mood broken. Jack sensed it immediately and asked, "Ready to go home, Mac?"
Her faraway look fading, MacKenzie Dawn Phillips looked at her feet. "No, I don't have a home tonight." She glanced over at Jack, "Can I stay at your house, Uncle Jack?"
