Page 15 of Priestly Sins

Hugs and man-slaps to the back are broken up by his serious tone.

“You’ve never sounded more serious than you did when you called. What’s going on?”

“Two questions: What’s your hourly rate? And has Sherrilyn had the baby yet?”

“For you, nothing. And last week, Eliza Beth.”

“I can’t wait to meet her. And ‘nothing’ won’t work. Street rate?”

“Two-fifty an hour. Man, what’s going on?

I whip out my wallet and pull out five fifty-dollar bills and ask the million-dollar question, “Are you willing to represent me?”

“Not licensed in Louisiana, but I can give counsel.”

“Where are you licensed?”

“Indiana, Illinois, Ohio, Michigan and South Carolina. Talk to me.”

“So, if I own property in one of those, you could be my attorney?”

“Yes, but…”

“Which one is best?” I cut him off by asking.

“What?”

“Given any budget, where should I buy so you can represent me?”

“South Carolina has the cheapest property taxes.”

“I’ll have something under contract by the end of the week, escrowed by month’s end. Actually, can you handle that for me?”

A bark escapes him. “Sure, Daddy Warbucks. Now”—his gaze turned serious and levels me—“what the hell is going on?”

I tell him everything. Everything. Everything I lied about. Every bit of truth, except for the justice I’ve taken, the moments of vengeance I’ve created. And then continue about my dad, his homes, his estate, his business dealings, why I chose my career path, even my future dreams. I swear him to secrecy which, despite his slack-jawed mouth hanging open and too-round eyes, he is bound to due to the two hundred and fifty dollars on his conference room table.

I tell him that Eliza Beth and Trey will have college funds established in their names as part of my new estate plan and that their creation and funding is nonnegotiable.

I explain I’ll need tax shields for the wealth I’ve just inherited. I tell him I want as much as possible to be done with as little attention as possible, that I’ve pissed off some very powerful people in Boston, and I do not want my involvement with him professionally known until we can mitigate the threat they pose.

I sign a contract with him and place a two-million-dollar retainer to cover expenses—any that he may have, personal or professional—as he helps me navigate my fucked-up life.

I look down at my jeans, black tee, and black hoodie.

“Can I meet your family now?”

He smiles for the first time in several hours and nods.

Ten

Monday morning might as well be a sledgehammer to the senses. I put six miles on the streets of New Orleans, instead of my typical four, but only add ten minutes to my time. Apparently, the last week has fueled more muddled thoughts and frustrations and I take it out on the Riverwalk path. I could’ve pushed for a seventh, but choose to head back to the rectory and begin my day.

I’m in the office before Evelyn arrives, planning. Part of that planning is getting with Bobby on loose ends in Ireland. Of all the things I failed to secure when I was in his office, this one is the most pressing in my mind.

Me:Need a favor.

Bobby:Sure. What’s up?