Page 17 of The Trust We Broke
LUCY
My father’s private law office once felt regal and awe-inspiring. From the dark green walls to the wooden shelves filled with leather-bound books, it felt like a room made for serious thinking and reading.
Even as a child, I felt as though important decisions were made in there. Like it was a room not to be taken lightly or underestimated.
It’s late. I should go home. Most of the staff here have left. But I’m scheduled to have dinner with one of my father’s clients and his wife tonight, and I really don’t want to go.
It was supposed to be my parents going, but somehow, I’ve agreed to go with Mom to put on a united front.
Dad’s desk is a huge wooden affair with a dark green leather inlay, and I run my finger over its cool surface. A jar of dark green fountain pen ink sits on the table untouched. After all, the law has moved on from filings hand-written with flourished penmanship.
With fresh eyes, long since removed from the veneer of polish my father always had, I can see the edges of the leather on the desk look worn, dust motes hover in the air, and the files thatwere scattered in haphazard piles this morning are now neatly arranged.
I stare at them and think of the time I spent with Nancy Yao, one of my father’s clerks, and Jasmine Hughes, his assistant. Both spectacularly talented women who could do so much better than my father’s firm that exists with non-equity partners who are all male.
“Should we stop for today so you can go visit your father?” Nancy asks.
A quick glance at my watch tells me I have time, but I don’t want to. I haven’t seen my father for two days. The anger I’ve held on to all these years rises beneath the surface. Seeing him might make it bubble over. I’ve finally gotten in touch with all his clients, drafted a full disclosure crisis management statement, in case we need it, and gotten through the worst of his emails.
“Let’s call it a day. Jasmine, could you send the restaurant details for tonight please?”
Jasmine nods. “Will do. Some of the more senior staff have been asking when your father will be accepting visitors.”
Of course, they are. Because that’s what friends do. But neither of my parents want my father to be seen yet. “I’ll ask him, but he feels a little vulnerable, right now. Hopefully, they can bear with him.”
She nods again. I wonder if that’s her default mode when it comes to my father’s wishes. “Of course. See you in the morning.”
There’s a phone charger on the desk, and it’s not one that matches my father’s phone. It’s been bothering me all day. But I unplug it, wrap it up, and place it in the top drawer of his desk.
My father’s bookshelves mainly contain legal books. Big, fat things bound in black leather. Most of the contents are available and searchable online, now, but my father clings to his preferred way of doing things.
I wander to the bookshelf nearest the window, where there are books I call mental masturbation. Wordy tomes written by men for men on topics of focus and leadership.
Amongst them is a copy ofThe Art of War.
Sun Tzu’s famous military treatise.
I’m unsurprised my father has it on his shelf.
I slide it off to open it.
Inside is a key, and my heart quickens. Of course, my father, who often admired the James Bond books by Ian Fleming, would have a secret…drawer or room or something.
It’s a guess. But Occam’s razor says the simplest explanation is likely the most obvious.
I slide open the desk drawer and start to push around the contents. On a mission, I open the second drawer and again come up empty. Something makes me persevere, and I open the third drawer and find nothing.
I’m just about to close it when I notice the depth of the drawer on the inside is not as deep as the drawer on the outside. And there’s a very small gap in the corner. I drop to my knees and feel around the edges.
“Yes!” There’s a brass keyhole on the wall of the drawer. And when I slot the key in, it fits perfectly. It takes me a moment, but I pull everything out, and I’m able to lift the false bottom.
There are notebooks. Document folders. Keys. And a phone.
Mom may have been right. What other reason would a man go to so much trouble to protect something if he was completely above board?
I lift the phone and grab the charger, and they snap together. Perhaps my father had better covert and technical skills than I give him credit for.
“Bingo,” I mutter. But as I grab for the folders to see what is in there, Adam, one of my father’s junior associates, comes back into the office.
