Zealous Pursuits

By Carol Gasper and Greg Fazekash

Sidney Barnett, a self-conscious mid-west attorney, spent a decade in neutral getting over his experimental ex-wife, Britany. But a rare chance at retribution through a divorce case changes everything.

Anne Lyesome, Sidneys attractive client, accompanied by her strong-willed sister, learns of infidelity beyond mere sexual affairs. Together, they discover threads of an elaborate international financial scheme skewed in her husbands favor.

Sidney with the aid of a private detective tries to sort things out and risks his fragile ego and career to expose the truth. His bewilderment is compounded by his desire to create reality out of fantasy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 6, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469117485

Carol Gasper

Greg Fazekash and Carol Gasper are co-authors of this suspense novel. Greg’s twenty years of experience allow him to provide complex investment, capital/financing, acquisition and operational consulting services. His formal education includes an undergraduate degree in accounting from the University of Akron. Carol is a University of Cincinnati Law School graduate who also writes essays and short stories. Her thirteen years of practice allow Sidney’s vocation to have its sentimental believability. Her undergraduate work was completed at Kent State University. Greg and Carol live in Hudson, Ohio with their six year-old son.

Book preview

Chapter 1

FOUR OR FIVE DRINKS? Who knew or cared? Those sky blue Star Trek martinis must have been the culprit ~ straight from the cosmos and smooth as silk going down. Some justification, but I didn’t feel much better. What the hell was in those things anyway? I guess it really didn’t matter. Sometimes you just had to celebrate.

I really loved that jazzed feeling that came from scoring a win for a client. And the mixology used to mark the occasion? I enjoyed that, as well. God knows that if I were willing to drink something sky blue in color, I would drink almost anything. Too bad my headache seemed to be the pounding bi-product of the celebration. Why? I didn’t know why because I really didn’t drink all that much. Did I?

I wondered if my triumphant client, big Jim Johnson has a headache this morning. Well, if he did, it would be short-lived. Yesterday, Jim Johnson got what he wanted. At long last, Jim finally had custody of his two young children. For the past three years, my client had been fighting for custody while his former wife continued her eighty-hour workweeks as a premier cardiologist.

Big bear hugs between rounds and Jim’s teary eyes made me feel my career passion. There was nothing more satisfying to me than winning an important personal victory for a client. Divorce, probate, DUIs, and other minor criminal matters were my specialty. I didn’t work for nameless, faceless, bloodless corporations anymore. The evening ended with Jim saying, live long and prosper while he did that funky thing with his fingers. I hoped that he still loved me that much when he got my final bill.

Though Jim Johnson’s joy was captivating, it was another morning just like any other for me. Wednesdays weren’t called hump day for nothing. The only problem was that for the past several years’ time, everyday felt like a Wednesday hump. My personal life was caught in a groove and I couldn’t seem to get out of it.

I rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom to begin my morning ritual. I emptied my bladder, washed my hands, splashed water on my face and reached over and turned on the shower. Three Anacin splashed down with two glasses of water this morning should do the trick. Why could I never remember to take them the night before? I guessed a premeditated hangover was not my style. I needed the pain to make me think twice the next time. Right… .

I took a second look in the mirror over the bathroom sink. The vulnerable face that usually acted as my lucky charm looked somewhat worn and unhappy. Would Britany, my ex-wife, still like the way I looked today? Most days I realized that she had been able to move on with her life. Wasn’t that the whole point of divorce? I was still stuck asking myself all of those what if questions. Like, what if she did come back? What if she still loves me? What if’ questions seemed to always ask what would happen if things were different? Well, reality just didn’t address the what if" questions. Second chances only happened in the movies. Why couldn’t I just move on?

As the shower continued to run, I was now naked except for yesterday’s boxers, looking through the closet for an appropriate suit of armor. From behind the door I heard my clock radio begin blaring Michael Jackson’s former hit single, Man in the Mirror.

I’m starting with the man in the mirror … I am asking him to … make a change.

Crap. It must be 7:30 AM already. I didn’t even know why I bothered with that radio alarm clock. I always got up before the damn thing went off anyway. Then I would forget to turn it off and go through this daily routine of trying to turn the blasted thing down before the downstairs neighbors could hear it. Actually, I wasn’t even sure if they could hear it, but I do try my best to be considerate. I care what other people think about me. It is a compelling combination of wondering if I will ever be good enough, coupled with an unnatural desire to make everyone else happy ahead of me. You’re right, a little bit strange for a somewhat successful litigator. Enough analysis paralysis … I didn’t have the time this morning.

As I was heading out of the closet to turn off the radio alarm clock, I was stopped by my image in the full-length closet mirror and felt the uncontrollable urge to dance. Eighties’ music sometimes did that to me. I forgot about my headache and flooded the air with my best karaoke of the song, while updating the 80s’ hit with a little Ricky Martin hip swivel. I did, however, skip an attempt at the moonwalk, something I never quite mastered anyway. Okay, I stopped the swivel; yet, there was a little bit of untoned skin on my upper body that was still moving. Even the steamy glass couldn’t hide that. I wouldn’t call it flab, per se, but if I didn’t start working out again soon, it would be. Did this mirror lie? I rubbed a spot clear and grimaced at my reflection. It didn’t reveal the lean, mean fighting machine that once was me.

How much do I weigh, today? I plod over to the bathroom scale and hop on ~ 191 pounds! Not terrible, I thought, for a big-boned six-footer. But it always paid to weigh in twice. I lost the boxer shorts, exhaled and hopped on, again ~ still 191. I leaned left and saw 190. A right lean produced the same result. By now, the radio was playing some Beach Boys music and I tried surfing on the scale. One arm forward and the other straight back resulted in progress … 189 ³4. There, I knew I wasn’t 190 pounds. Maybe I would check out that Body Mass Index thing on the Internet. That’s supposed to be more meaningful than the bathroom scale anyway.

Whatever it said, it didn’t change the fact that my fighting weight used to be 178 pounds. It was time for a change, in more ways than one. Time for me to hop out of this well-worn groove and back onto the LP of life. Whoa, that comment dates me. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t think up a similar analogy with laser lights and CD’s.

Who cares? I am who I am ‘cause I am who I am … I’m Sidney Barnett the Litigator Man! Now everyone who knows me appreciates the fact that I am a cornball. Interestingly, middle age has allowed me to find humor in a lot more things than when I was younger. Somehow though, this heightened corny sense hadn’t had a positive impact on my personal life. Probably because I remain a firm believer that when you take something cheesy and try to improve it, you ultimately end up doing everyone a disservice. I guessed that there was only so much that trite humor could improve. At least I could thank the onslaught of middle age syndrome for letting me see the need for change in my life.

Even my buddy, Harry, also known as Harold W. Forsythe, III to clients, has symptoms of the middle age syndrome. He was approaching his big 50th Birthday next week with such trepidation and fear. He had become so reflective lately; worrying about what legacy he would be leaving in this world. He was also spending time trying to get in touch with his Chi ~ not a Mexican appetizer but another word for inner energy, I think. What was he so worried about? It was almost as if Harry didn’t think his life had meaning anymore.

Yet, look at Harry’s life. He has everything ~ great career, beautiful family and loyal friends. Hell, if it weren’t for Harry, our law firm, Forsythe and Barnett, wouldn’t even be afloat. Harry had a knack for landing all of the paying clients while I fought battles for the little guy. It’s not that I sought out little guy battles, it just worked out that way. Oh, yes, I needed to thank Harry for the Johnson case referral. Paying clients were important. Something Harry liked to counsel me about whenever he could. Maybe I should tell Harry that I am part of his legacy ~ or would he think I am drafting his eulogy?

At 45, I wasn’t far behind Harry on the age scale, yet I didn’t feel like I had my act together. Hell, I didn’t know what it was. Some of my lawyer buddies would say that the pleasure I felt from practicing law was, in itself, cause for psychoanalytic study. I don’t believe that this is my problem although it might make me something of an enigma. Say what you will about lawyers. I believed, as Oliver Wendell Holmes did, that every calling is great, when greatly pursued. So, if it wasn’t my career, what would it be?

I didn’t want to wait until age 50 was around the corner to face my issues; I was going to start making changes right away. Though the Man in the Mirror did let me actually see some things that needed to change, my version of this nasty syndrome was otherwise pretty aloof. It didn’t bless me with an instructional booklet, complete with detail on the order and method of change. Instead, there was just this nagging voice inside me that kept repeating in hallowed formidable tones, you need change … you need change. The voice didn’t tell me what to change, how to change, or why change was appropriate. Somewhat disrespectful, this voice, but quite alluring … akin to a phone message you might get from someone who just says call me. While you think about not calling the person back because they didn’t have the decency to leave a detailed message, you return that call first ~ before any of the others. You just can’t help but wonder whether what’s not being said will be the most important message you’ve ever received.

So I answered this aloof voice calling for change and decided that I would begin with what I could see ~ my physique. I’ve talked about the way I used to look ~ no longer reflected in the mirror as I remembered me. Hey, what about The Fitness Club right downtown? I’ve engaged myself in wonderful discussions about going over there during the lunch hour, but I couldn’t bear the thought of feeling like I wasn’t carrying my weight (figuratively, not literally) at the firm. Today, however, I promised myself I would make that lunchtime trip to the club substituting calorie burn for calorie intake.

It’s not like I had to ask permission or anything. I am a named partner in our small firm and put in enough billable hours that a few hours a week at the health club should not matter. No one could hand me a pink slip anymore. However, I have this nagging work ethic that says be in by 8:30, never leave before 5:30 and always be back from lunch by 1:30 unless you are with a client, of course. Where on earth did I get these clock-watching hang-ups? Guilt was a wonderful motivator for a guy like me.

The Beach Boys song, whatever it was, ended and I finally turned off the radio alarm clock. The downstairs neighbors either liked my eclectic taste in music or couldn’t hear my radio at all. I took a second look at the clothes I robotically selected for today: crisp blue suit, starched white shirt and a muted power tie. This outfit looked very similar to what I wore yesterday and the day before that. Why not shed the lawyer’s suit of armor today? I hadn’t scheduled any court appearances today. If I were just going to sit in my office and use the phone, what possible difference could it make?

But would Harry think less of me? Would Betty, my ever-evaluating secretary think that I had lost that sharp lawyerly edge or just my mind? Did I really believe that conventional wisdom about a professional and his clothes? Anyway, wasn’t this conventional wisdom dead in nearly every other profession? Okay, so bankers still made the grade by adorning their best blues day in and day out. I frankly could care less. Today, I decided, I am wearing casual clothes. Saying this out loud confirmed my actions.

This, of course, created a whole different dilemma. Which casual did I need to be … country club casual, cowboy casual, or college casual? I decided to go with my khaki pants, blue button-down shirt and a blue V-neck sweater. I thought this qualified as college casual, but I wasn’t sure. When you came right down to it, this outfit was just another uniform of sorts. But I would save that cynical thought for one of my drives to work. I did some of my best thinking during my short drives to and from the office. My makeshift sauna jolted me. I was going to be late.

I jumped in the shower that had now been running for almost twenty minutes. A good explanation for my high gas and water bills. Oh how I hated to be late … I had better hurry through the shower in order to get into the office by 8:30. It wasn’t like anything of magnitude ever happened before 9:00, but you never knew. After toweling off, I tried to shave without looking at my face because I didn’t have any extra meditation time left this morning. I combed and moussed my plentiful hair and silently thanked God for one small favor. I say small favor because my plentiful hair turned prematurely gray at age thirty. I would have considered it a large favor if my hair were still plentiful and coal black.

After getting dressed in my attempt at college casual wear, I began the unfamiliar task of packing my gym bag. I wasted another five minutes searching my bedroom for the various workout stuff I needed ~ running shoes, socks, shorts, T-shirt and heart monitor. Heart monitor?

Harry gave me the heart monitor for Christmas this past year. Subtle hints were Harry’s specialty. Harry was the kind of guy that wouldn’t say shit even if it were coming out of both sides of his mouth. He liked to be my mentor. To him this meant allowing me to make the same mistakes he did only pointing them out quickly and in excruciating detail. He was, however, probably my best friend, too, so you had to take the good with the bad. I headed to the kitchen for a quick cup of coffee. I checked my watch and decided I had better get one later. There was always coffee at the office.

It was now way past the time to go. I hurried down the corridor to the elevator. As I waited, I looked down and realized that I had unconsciously put on my wing-tip shoes. Oh Jeez. Betty would surely think that I was truly insane if I left these shoes on. I quickly turned on my heel, went back to my loft and got my casual loafers. This time I wasn’t going to take the elevator, I would take the stairs. I wouldn’t want the camera surveillance people to think something was awry in my life. The security guards always had a way of asking you a question that faked sincerity rather than reality. They would ask me a question like was something wrong with the elevator this morning Mr. Barnett? Rather than glad you changed your shoes, Sid. You certainly looked dorky in those wing tips with your casual clothes this morning! Why I cared what they thought was beyond me.

Well, it looked like I would be only a little late today. Dilbert would probably be proud, but I wasn’t. Oh well, I thought with a tinge of happiness, I saw the man in the mirror today. Usually I just pass him by because I have been afraid of the self-assessment stuff that goes along with a critical look. The man in the mirror needed some work. The Fitness Club would be a good start. Baby steps. You had to start somewhere and somewhere was always in the middle. Physique first and psyche second. I would fix the easy part first, then address whatever it was that the voice was alluding to.

Should I also see a psychologist? Maybe someone like that could probably help me find the next Mrs. Barnett or Ms. Right, if I was forced to be politically correct. Lord knows I had spent many an hour with bartenders sharing their street wisdom for the price of the next drink. Maybe with professional help I could forget about the one that slipped away from me in 1990. Ten years ago and more; had it really been that long? Well, it must have been. It is the new millennium. God, how I miss her.

I walked to my car in the parking garage and began the short drive to the office. Britany surprised me with this very car, a 1987 Audi 5000S, as my thirty-third birthday present. I instantly fell in love with it and still savored my mind’s picture of that first look: German racing silver with a bright red ribbon lying across the length of the car and a gigantic red bow placed in the center of the car’s roof. She had paid cash, using some of her never-ending family trust money. She could be that way sometimes ~ spontaneously generous. Thank God the old Audi was a gift and I had pictures to prove it. Otherwise, McMasters, my ex-wife’s divorce attorney, would have demanded it back as part of the divorce settlement. The car was a mixed blessing in that I worked less than two miles away from the loft and rarely traveled. So it was kind of hard to justify a new car when the Audi had only 27,000 miles on it. Yet, the car was a daily reminder of what I had and lost and probably would do anything, short of a first-degree felony, to have again.

Reality returned, as I pumped my brakes hard not wanting to risk missing my parking deck. A second pass around the block could be a ten-minute diversion this time of day. My ears were also greeted by the ugly, dissonant sound of a blaring horn behind me. I physically restrained my urgent desire to flip off the surly driver and calmly pulled into my deck. I had enough enemies already, both real and imaginary. No sense in creating another.

After parking in my reserved space, I quickly crossed the cavernous lobby of my office building, and took the elevator to 27th floor. I wondered what disapproving look I would get from darling Betty this morning.

Chapter 2

FORSYTHE & BARNETT was a plush, well-designed 3,000 square foot law office. Big enough for two princely offices, a regal conference room, a now out-of-date law library, small kitchen, and a spacious lobby. We didn’t choose the decor. The firm that preceded us was kind enough to go out of business allowing us to buy all of the furniture and art work for twenty cents on the dollar. We were also able to assume their long-term lease at generous terms including free rent for one year. Although the offices were not our style when we moved in ten years ago, it had become our style over time. We hadn’t changed a thing over the past ten years and probably never would.

I took a deep breath and opened the door. Betty almost ignored me as I walked in and rushed to my office at 8:50 AM, now officially late. Perhaps she didn’t recognize me in my college casual duds. More likely I really didn’t look up long enough to notice any gesture of a good morning greeting that she may have meant for me.

Arriving in my office, I realized I had forgotten to stop for coffee. I didn’t want to go down the hall to the kitchen to get any. No sense in advertising my new attempt at haute couture. And Lord knows Betty would only bring me a cup if I begged her. It was okay for her to volunteer, but she could get really peeved if I asked. The problem was my caffeine needs and her occasional offers rarely meshed. And, of course, today she was also giving me the silent treatment. Don’t get me wrong, if I had a client in my office, she could make the servers in a fancy restaurant look inattentive. However, if I were alone in my office, she treated me as if we were equals. I often wondered if she treated Harry the same way.

I worked through the morning cleaning up a few odds and ends without seeing anyone. Before lunchtime, I logged onto the Internet. Who needed a law library when current research was available on-line? However, nailing a CD to the wall or a yard of phone line wouldn’t impress our clients. I began my day’s research and typed in Body Mass Index for my search. Up popped sixty-three entries. I selected one and saw the formula for BMI calculations.

Weight x 705 / Height in Inches / Height in Inches I started to laugh … 705? What the hell was that? Was that the number that the formula developer needed so that he wouldn’t be categorized as obese?

Cautiously, I began my calculation: 190 pounds x 705 / 72 inches / 72 inches = 25.84 Lovely … since at 25.84, my score was over 24.9, I was moderately overweight. I worked the math backwards and found out I needed to be 183 pounds, plus or minus my boxers, to move out of the moderately overweight category and into the fit category. Seven pounds separated me from happiness. I started to calculate what number the 705 would have to be in order to fit my current weight. Quickly I realized that there was no room for a fudge factor ~ the extra seven pounds was quite visible this morning.

Noon approached and I decided it was time to leave the office for my workout. I sensed a quizzical look from Betty as I strolled by her on my way to the elevator giving her a small wave. I know she saw the gym bag in my hand and would figure it out. I was not in the mood for small talk today. In fact, I wished most people would only talk when they had something meaningful to say … oh well, another one of my hang-ups. If she said be careful or something, I was going to clock her with my gym bag. The last thing I needed was for her to say something motherly right now.

The Fitness Club was only about a block from my office. It was on the top floor of an office building complete with an outdoor track, indoor climbing wall and every other masochistic piece of fitness equipment you could imagine. Hard to believe I gave up my workout routine about the same time that I got my divorce. Was this supposed to be a punishment? If so, I was only punishing myself. I realized how much I missed the adrenaline rush and looked forward to getting back into the routine.

Go easy today, I thought. It wasn’t unusual for a guy in his forties to have a heart attack. And now there was a type of heart condition that couldn’t even be detected by stress tests! It was supposed to be a silent killer of the physically fit. Maybe I would have to worry about that in the future. I felt lucky as I snagged the last treadmill. I noticed the computer screen staring back at me and realized things had really changed. This machine would simulate any run I could think of and could even be custom programmed. The last time I was on one of these things I had two very simple and understandable choices: incline and speed.

It was amazing to watch all of these people rushing to get on these machines, only to sweat and perspire like pigs in a standing room only pen. Who would want to be seen in this place? Well, I thought, I guess I had gotten that wrong. I had forgotten about the social stage show of the health club scene ~ hungry babes on the prowl looking for their next mate or meal. It was really primal in a way.

A group of these babes were congregating near the Precor EFX machines looking a little too chic for a real workout but hot none the less. Some of their outfits looked more like lingerie rather than workout clothes. And the make-up. Jeez. I then realized that one of these chic babes was slowly, but deliberately making her way toward my treadmill. Her leopard skin leotard, bright red lips and matching talons made her look like an animal fresh from a recent kill and hungry for more. I supposed she really needed to use the very treadmill I was on.

Glancing down, I noticed a clipboard hanging from the machine. I really hated those sign-up sheets on these machines. It was like having someone hover over your table at lunch, waiting for you to be finished so they could sit down. Good thing I grabbed a newspaper to read. Maybe she would skip my treadmill and move on to someone else’s machine. Unfortunately, it appeared she was searching to find out who that new alpha male was that had entered her domain.

I looked down and began reading the newspaper, trying not to appear rude. This would be fine, I thought. I was only working out at a brisk walking pace. I could do this. Just then, the machine began to hum noisily, the incline rocketed skyward and the treadmill sped up, too. I lost my footing. The paper went underneath my surprised feet and I went stumbling backwards off the treadmill as it continued going 10 M.P.H. up Mount Everest. I did my best to remain standing but fell down on my ass less than gracefully. I quickly jumped up off of the floor rubbing my injury. My ego had a bigger bruise than my backside and I was more than a little embarrassed. I then noticed much to my chagrin that the chic workout chick was standing at the front of my machine smiling away. I sort of blurted out, Well, if you are waiting for a treadmill, I guess you can have mine. As you can tell by my unusual dismount, I am kind of rusty.

Oh no, she purred. I just came by to chat. I haven’t seen you around here before.

Chat? She wanted to chat? Why? I wasn’t ready for this. Didn’t my untoned middle make that obvious? Once I was in shape, then I would have the confidence to go babe hunting, not be one of the hunted.

She must have sensed the brush off and continued, somewhat coolly, And by the way, if you clip that little key thing to your shorts, smirking as she touched the waistband of my shorts with her bright red talon, the next time you fall off, the machine will shut off automatically. With this last line she snapped my waistband to emphasize the impact of my body hitting the floor.

I winced as my mind was moving at the speed of light. I grabbed my towel and covered myself more as camouflage rather than self-defense. Now I know what prey must feel like. I heard myself almost whispering Thanks … well, I, uh, have to get going. I just realized how late it is and I’ve got to get back to my office.

Sure, she said winking slowly with only her left eyelid. Maybe I’ll see you around here more often.

Right, I said, still embarrassed, but in a strange way complimented by the way the woman went out of her way to say hello. Maybe the little bit of in-process flab wasn’t to be noticed by anyone but me. Then again, maybe she was just another personal injury lawyer anxious for the rights to my claim. Shouldn’t health clubs post warnings about trying to read a newspaper on the treadmill? Something like that would have saved me from looking like such a goof. I watched the babe walk away, as I thought … nice spots. Perhaps I should make this a regular event, sans newspaper.

I retreated to the men’s locker room. I showered and changed back into my casual clothes before leaving the club. Everyone else was putting on their suits and ties to head back to their offices, except for me. I couldn’t believe how powerless I felt without my corresponding suit of armor. Maybe I had better rethink this casual thing.

Skipping breakfast and lunch was catching up with me; I was starving. I stopped for a hot dog with jalapenos and stadium mustard at a vendor stand just in front of The Fitness Center’s building. Seemed like poetic justice to me although I had never seen a vendor advertising tofu and bean sprouts.

I ate my dog on the run so I could be back by 1:45 PM. No sense in being pushed for time. This was my first workout expedition in a long time. I wondered if I had missed anything by being just fifteen minutes later than usual. Two burps later I wondered whether there was a hot dog modifier for the BMI calculation.

Chapter 3

SOME POOR SOUL was on the phone with Betty when I returned to the office.

"Yes, Ms. Andrews. I have a message that you called at noon and again at 1:00 PM. I do expect Mr. Barnett back shortly and will now give him all three of your messages."

Betty raised her disapproving eyebrows at me as I passed her work station and flashed her the international take a message signal, not to be confused with waiter, check please. With one small facial gesture, Betty had made it clear that if I had told her when I was going to return I could have made her world a much better place.

I heard Betty continue, I am sure he will call you back soon. Mr. Barnett is very diligent about returning his calls promptly, Ms. Andrews. She spoke with a little less enthusiasm then I would have preferred.

Betty seemed to understand my signal and took the third message from this rather anxious person. I always preferred to have a few moments to prepare rather than be caught off guard, especially with a potential new client. Also, an unintentional burp was probable based on what I ate and how fast it went down. Before she could scold me, I nodded to Betty and said, Yes, I will call Ms. Andrews back upon returning from down the hall.

I borrowed one of the many magazines she always had on her desk as a little library material. I could only guess she immediately threw it away upon my return since she frowned on my choice of reading locations. It wasn’t like I used the pages as toilet paper or anything. I knew Betty would be watching her phone board when I returned to make certain the first thing I did was make the call. She would probably even put her ear to my closed door to make certain I wasn’t just calling Time and Temperature. Everyone needs a Betty in his or her life; part Mom, part Assistant, part Bitch.

* * *

Elizabeth Andrews hated to wait. She would have called several other attorneys by now if it were up to her. But her older sister, Anne Lyesome, was calling the shots. It would be her sister’s divorce. It was hard enough to convince Anne that there was a need to call a lawyer in the first place. If it weren’t for her husband’s surprise mediation meeting, Anne never would have had the courage to seek her own counsel. Anne was not the kind of person to hurl the first stone. Liz, on the other hand, was the kind to hurl the first boulder before the starting whistle even blew.

Anne had finally agreed on calling this Sidney character only because she remembered him as a somewhat shy, vulnerable type who was very charming. Anne told Liz she had once tried to counsel Sidney through her work with the local Alcohol Abuse Program. Liz wasn’t sure how rational Anne’s thinking was on this lawyer pick. She wondered how a vulnerable, charming alcoholic could effectively take up Anne’s cause. If it were up to Liz, she would find Satan, herself, to represent Anne against her soon to be ex-husband Lyndon. Thank God husbands were not something she would ever have to worry about.

Her friends called her Lizzie and her enemies called her Lezzie. She preferred Liz and yes … she was a lesbian. At least she thought she was. She had gone both ways for a while during college but later realized that all of the men she met were basically schmucks. In effect, very much like her brother-in-law, Lyndon.

Liz’s hate for Lyndon Lyesome began thirteen years ago when Anne first introduced them. His good looks, perpetual tan and muscular physique, while definitely eye catching, were not good enough decoys for the arrogance and rudeness that escaped every time Lyndon opened his mouth. Thirteen years had not done much to erase the memory of her first one-on-one conversation with Lyndon.

Lyndon’s words were along the lines