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The election of Thomas Jefferson Carver had been declared six days ago. Carver had defeated a one-term incumbent, a decent, honorable, lifetime member of the D.C. political class. Unfortunately, a bit past his sell-by-date. The election, both the popular vote and the Electoral College Vote, had not been close. With the Carvers’ (plural) photogenic looks, charm and their boot-licking media, their election was a foregone conclusion.

Marc Kadella, knowing what he knew about the Carvers, had been in a funk since the polls closed. Today, the Monday after the first Tuesday in November, he was at his desk as early as usual. Mickey was representing a murder one case and Marc was going to second chair it. The file was open on his desk. The trial date was coming up.

Their client was a career criminal with the name Howard ‘Howie’ Traynor. Howie was also a pure sociopath. No conscience, no empathy, no feelings either for or against any other human. Howie was accused of murdering a wealthy, older, widow. Howie was also, because of his lack of nerves or feelings, a first-rate burglar. Howie and another man, believing the woman was not home, were in the act of burglarizing her home when it happened.

Howie went into her bedroom only to find the woman in bed. In a flash, Howie was on her and smothered her to death with a pillow. Or, so it was alleged. Marc knew he was guilty. Mickey knew he was guilty because Howie’s partner made a deal that did not include a homicide charge. Scared to death of Howie; to avoid prison with Howie, his partner sang like a canary. The corroboration was found on Howie when he was arrested. He was holding an expensive, antique cigarette lighter that was part of the loot. To make matters a bit worse, the victim was the aunt of the wealthiest woman in Minnesota. Vivian Corwin Donahue had platinum level clout. When she called the governor or a U.S. senator, she was not even put on hold. Howie was not going to get a deal .

Marc set aside his case file, picked up his coffee cup and headed toward the break room. It was still early, a few minutes before eight o’clock. He could hear staff members chatting around the coffee maker.

“Hey, sunshine, still pouting about the election?” Alice Merkel asked. Alice was a legal assistant.

“Oh, I’m not really pouting,” Marc said. “I learned some things about the Carvers that, if you knew these things, who and what they really are, you wouldn’t be impressed with them.”

“So, tell me,” Alice said.

“Nope, coffee please,” Marc said holding his cup, toward Alice. While she filled it, Marc said, “Besides now that they’re in you’ll probably learn all about them. Unless the media continues to cover up for them.”

“He’s a hottie,” Marge Bearth said. “I can see why women go after him.”

“When I hear women say that kind of thing about a politician, I think maybe it’s time to take another look and rethink the nineteenth amendment,” Marc said while looking at Kevin Stuart, the office paralegal.

“I’m with you,” Kevin replied. “I voted for Baker. There’s something a little too slick and sleazy about the Carvers,” Kevin said holding his fist out to Marc for a solidarity fist bump.

“Very funny,” Alice said. “Time to get started.”

On his third and final cup of coffee, his feet up on a desk drawer, Marc was taking a break with the morning paper. While scanning the Metro section, a small headline, page three below the fold, caught his attention.

It was a brief, three-paragraph article about a young man found dead in a Colorado prison cell. What put it in the Metro section of the St. Paul paper was quite obvious to Marc.

“Oh, my God,” Marc whispered to himself while reading.

William Stover, Marc’s client from a year ago by way of the Carvers. According to this brief article in the paper, Billy Stover was dead. An apparent suicide.

Marc finished reading then leaned back and stared at the wall. After a few seconds, he said, “He couldn’t have had more than three or four months to go to make parole. ”

Suicide? I don’t think so , Marc thought.

“Could they have…?” Marc said out loud to himself.

A voice from outside his office yelled his name, snapping Marc out of his thoughts about Billy.

Before he could answer, Alice appeared in his doorway saying, “We just got a call from the hospital. Regions. They have Mickey. He’s had a heart attack.”

Marc jumped up while yanking his suit coat off the back of his chair. He almost knocked Alice out of the way going through his doorway. On his way to the coat rack and his overcoat, he found Kevin Stuart coming after him.

“I want to go,” Kevin said several times.

“Sure, come on, let’s go,” Marc replied.

The Cathedral of St. Paul, situated on Cathedral Hill, has one of the most distinctive views in Minnesota. It overlooks downtown St. Paul, the Mississippi River and the state Capitol. It has also been designated a National Shrine of the Apostle Paul. The United States Conference of Catholic Bishops and the Vatican conferred this well-deserved honor.

Despite being a modest Catholic, at best, Mickey O’Herlihy’s funeral was held in the Cathedral. Archbishop Connor MacBreen, being a fellow Irish Catholic and, likely more important, a poker pal of Mickey’s, personally allowed the funeral site.

The Cathedral’s seating capacity of 3,000 was filled. If a bomb had gone off, a serious section of the Twin Cities bar would be eliminated. Of course, a large number of irreverent jokes would follow.

The mayors of both Minneapolis and St. Paul gave eulogies that would have embarrassed old Mickey. Still, all in all, it was a nice service and a grand send off for those that loved him and hated him.

Unknown to Marc, indeed most people, Mickey O’Herlihy was an army veteran. The interment took place at Ft. Snelling where a live bugler played taps and Mickey received a twenty-one-gun salute. Perhaps the best final tribute to be had for anyone .

With the flag still draping the coffin, Marc, who was in attendance by himself, turned down to walk off. More tears came to his red eyes while thinking about how much he would miss the old Irishman.

With almost a thousand people packed in, traffic would be slow. Marc did not care. He had plenty of time. Ft. Snelling, with over 260,000 headstones for veterans, was a beautiful site with rows upon rows of white headstones marking the final resting place for those who have served.

The crowd was slowly starting to disperse. Mark had barely gone twenty feet when he felt a hand on his shoulder and heard a familiar voice.

“Hey, Marc, you got a minute?”

Marc turned around and found two of the three grown children of Mickey. Brian and David, the two sons, both of whom were several years older than Marc.

“Sure, Brian,” Marc said then looked at Brian’s brother, nodded and said, “David.” They shook hands as Marc asked, “What’s up?”

“We’ve decided to sell Dad’s building,” Brian said.

“I figured you would,” Marc replied.

“We don’t want to throw anyone out. We’re not in a hurry,” David said.

“Okay, good. I appreciate that,” Marc said. “What are you thinking?”

“At least, what?” Brian said to his brother.

“Four or five months,” David said.

“That should be enough,” Marc said.

“We want to make sure the staff can find jobs,” David said.

“I don’t think they’ll have a problem,” Marc said. “They’re already bringing their resume’s up to date. Working for your dad should be a good enough reference.”

“Listen, we’d prefer to sell to you if you’re interested,” Brian said.

“I don’t know if I could come up with the financing,” Marc replied. “Without Mickey, I’m not sure the practice would generate enough income to cover the payments. ”

“One of the firms on the first floor is interested. We thought we’d give you first shot at it,” Brian said.

“First shot at what,” they heard a woman’s voice from behind Brian and David. “Are you selling the building?”

Both Brian and David turned and said in unison, “Hello, Connie.”

Marc saw a medium size older woman, wearing a stylish black hat and large sunglasses.

She stepped up to Marc, extended her right hand while saying, “Connie Mickelson.”

“Marc Kadella,” he replied.

“You must be Mickey’s latest project,” she said.

“I am, or, I was,” Marc said.

She turned back to the boys and asked again, “You guys selling?”

“You interested?” Brian asked.

Connie thought about it for a few seconds then said. “No, I don’t think so. I got enough on my hands in Minneapolis. Property in St. Paul would be a pain in the ass.

“Marc should buy it,” Connie said turning back to him.

“No, I think it’s a bit over my head,” Marc said.

“You guys will get it sold, no problem. I know a couple of people might be interested. I’ll give them a call.”

“Thanks, Connie,” Brian said.

“Okay,” she said, “I gotta ask. Is it true your old man’s heart gave out while he was in the sack with a high end hooker client?”

Marc sucked in a deep breath and almost backed away. He knew it was true, but also thought it was in bad taste to ask his sons that at his funeral.

Except, knowing their father as well as they did, both sons laughed and Brian admitted it.

“Yeah,” he said, “it’s true.”

“He would have wanted it that way,” David said. David leaned forward and whispered to Connie, “An extra tab of Viagra having been administered.”

“Atta boy, Mickey,” Connie said .

She looked at Marc who was still holding his breath and said, “I knew The Mick well. In fact, we had a bit of fling many years ago.”

Connie snapped her fingers then said, “I just realized something. You’ll be looking for office space. I own a building now in Uptown in Minneapolis. I have space available and as a friend of Mickey’s I’ll let you have it cheap.

“I’m serious. Here,” she said digging in her purse. She came out with a business card holder, handed one to Marc while saying, “Give me a call. Stop by and have a look. It’s a nice set up.”

“You’re a lawyer,” Marc said.

“Yeah, we have an office sharing suite ten minutes from downtown. I can tell you right now we’ll have enough referral work to keep you busy. Give me a call next week. Come on over and take a look.”

“I will,” Marc said. “First thing Monday.”

Thus began a deep friendship. Almost a mother and son relationship that would flourish and prosper for many years.