Page 6 of The Trust We Broke
The wide-eyed look on my father’s face says that on a one-to-ten scale of being calm, he’s a solid eleven.
Eventually, Henderson leaves.
I look at the notepad my father has attempted to write notes on all day. The frantic scribbles. The panic. But days of being unable to communicate have taken their toll.
While I have zero respect for my father, having all your mental faculties and being able to understand everything that is said to you, but being unable to find words in reply, let alone being able to say it in any kind of understandable order must be terrifying.
He grabs the pad and manages to scribble a single word.
Work?
“I’ve been in today. Spent the time with Jasmine and Nancy.” Dad’s assistant and clerk have been invaluable. Before I even hit the airport a month ago, when Dad had the first stroke, I applied for a pro hac vice admission so I could get permission to practice in Colorado for Dad’s current major case. But I also filed a notice of emergency medical incapacity. Thanks to the fact that my father is well known and respected within the Colorado Supreme Court, I was quickly able to get my license to practice here, thanks to bar reciprocity. A quiet word with a long-time friend of my father greased the wheels.
Like all the privilege I know I stand on, it both bothers me I was able to do that, and yet, I’m grateful that I could.
My father was furious, and the only legal action I undertook while I was here was to support Greer, a favor to the IronOutlaws’ club lawyer, who encouraged me when I was young to take the legal path.
He failed to mention the favor would involve seeing my ex-husband.
“Judge Boland granted a continuance, but I think the defense will file for a mistrial, even if your most senior associates step in. They are looking for any excuse to stall this.”
Mom nibbles the side of her finger, then, as if realizing what she’s doing, slaps her hand down on her thigh and puts the other hand over it. “This is what I’m worried about.” She glances over to Dad, who doesn’t look at her. “They can’t think you’re incapable of practicing.”
I roll my eyes at this because my fatherisn’tcapable of practicing.
“Lucy, please,” Mom begs. “You need to be your father’s face to the world. If they are granted a mistrial based on your father’s absence, everyone will know how ill he is. Don’t let them do this to his good name.”
“If there are problems with his good name, it won’t be because of a health scare. And just because they ask for a mistrial, doesn’t mean they’ll get one. Legal teams change all the time, and as much as I hate to admit it, Dad has some strong associates. It will look even stranger if I suddenly step in.”
My father opens his mouth, but the few words and sound make no sense.
But, because I’m the good girl, I’ve gone through all the evidence Dad collated. “I’m ready in case your client pivots legal teams, and we need to hand all your case files over.”
My dad violently shakes his head.
“I know it’s not what you want,” I say. “But unfortunately, we should be prepared. I think it’s one thing to have a few days of cover when your lawyer comes down with food poisoning,but it’s something completely different when they may not be available for the duration of their trial.”
Dad throws his hands in the air, and the wretched pain of desperation passes over his face.
“I’m going home,” I say to my parents. “Do you need a ride, Mom?”
“No,” she says, pulling the chair up next to Dad’s bed. “I drove over myself and I’m going to stay for another hour because I hate to leave your dad like this. But take care on the ride home.”
I sometimes wonder if Mom would ask so much of me if she knew the extent of the powerful blackmail Dad held over me when I needed his support. But it seems to be an unwritten rule between the two of us that we don’t talk about how my father dominated both our lives in ways that were, and continue to be, unhealthy.
She must have seen it in my actions, though. In how I only ever came home to see her when my father was out of town.
The drive is quiet and comfortable in my father’s truck. It’s too cold to risk the sports car, now. December is just around the corner bringing frost and snow. As the gates open to my family’s estate, I mentally debate whether they provide security or a prison. And I suppose the difference is the direction you approach them from. From the outside, they look like security. But after decades living here, I can fully attest they’re a prison.
A very privileged and gauche prison, for sure. There is no gray sludge served for breakfast. Instead, Janine, who has been with my father’s family for thirty-seven years, will cook everyone their favorite meals on rotation before presenting them on the mahogany table in the main dining room with aplomb.
But if the definition of a prison is a building in which people are legally held as punishment, then this is the US Penitentiary, De Bose. And I’m being held, simply for being born to them.
This place leaves me cold. Nothing good ever happened here. A family’s warmth replaced with words like duty and reputation.
I glance at the stone pillars. On the left is a date: 1891. On the right is the family name. My father, Royston, likes to regale the story that De Bose comes from the French wordDubois, which he believes means from the woods. He’ll tell a very verbose story of adventure and daring, as our family settled here and built the ranch.
In truth, our family legacy was built on the backs of enslaved people, on land that belonged to the Ute Nation or one of the Arapaho, Apache, Shoshone, Cheyenne, or Pueblo tribes. And the reality of that has been something I’ve grappled with for most of my adult life.
