The contrast between the friend she remembered, the pretty blue-eyed blonde captured in the photograph that she still carried in her wallet in her purse, and the disheveled wreck that stood before her with grimy clothes, blood-shot eyes, and dirty, stringy hair, was shocking. The Shannon Bloom standing on the curb just outside the Nashville Memorial Hospital before Chris Jensen, her once best friend and teammate, was virtually unrecognizable. Chris, a soon to be graduate of Vanderbilt University where she played four years of soccer on scholarship, had not seen Shannon even once in all those years after high school. She took the picture out of her wallet and looked at it to convince herself that it really was Shannon.
The photograph had been taken of them together on the field their junior year right after their team won the Tennessee state soccer championship. She always smiled whenever she remembered how the two of them had created quite a ruckus, sliding on their knees in the grass at mid-field with their fists lifted high in triumph, jerseys pulled off and held tightly in their hands. Their coach had to scramble fast to douse the flames of controversy that erupted after pictures appeared on the front page of the Tennessean’s sports section showing the two seventeen-year-old girls publicly celebrating in their “underwear.” Luckily, reason had ultimately prevailed, after all they had each been wearing sports bras that covered more than the average modest bikini top. But now here was Shannon in front of her. Four years of near continual drug abuse had visibly taken a toll.
“Shannon? Is that you?” Chris tried to act normal, but she could not stop her face from reflecting disbelief. A few people hustled by them on their way into and out of the ER, and Chris felt guilty at the flash of embarrassment that hit her.
“Huh, oh yeah, um…Hi Chris.” Shannon’s voice was raspy, and she lowered her gaze and avoided eye contact.
“I haven’t seen you in years, where’ve you been? What’ve you been doing?” Chris stepped back to take account of her once close friend. An ambulance pulled up to the top of the sloped emergency ramp and stopped, its team of medics rushing to unload the patient they were delivering to the ER.
Shannon mumbled something about “getting around,” and “staying busy,” keeping her head down as she spoke and deliberately not looking at Chris. “What’re you doing here?”
“I was just visiting a friend who had a baby, you remember Sally Taylor? She’s Sally Jamieson now, she’s married.” Shannon gave a blank stare and nodded her head in what appeared to represent an acknowledgement. Chris had occasionally heard vague rumors about Shannon but never knew the details of what was happening. She was shocked by what she was seeing, having had no prior idea that her friend had fallen so far and so hard.
They had been childhood friends who grew up together living in the same upscale neighborhood. It was by coincidence that their parents had signed them up for the same youth soccer team, but the two girls bonded immediately, growing closer over the years as their athletic talents blossomed. Through middle school and into high school, Shannon had always been the prettier, more popular, talented, and smarter of the two, and Chris had longed to be more like her friend. Now, looking at Shannon, she could not imagine wanting to be like her.
As returning players from that championship team, they had expected to once again dominate Tennessee high school soccer during their senior year and then together pick and choose between college athletic scholarships. Shannon made first team all-state that junior year, but in the first game of their senior season she sprained the medial collateral ligament in her left knee. An orthopedic surgeon recommended that she take off at least four weeks before playing again, and then brace her knee for added support. Because MCL injuries hurt, the doctor prescribed Shannon an opioid-based pain medication to help her remain comfortable during her recovery. And just like that, her downward spiral began.
Shannon’s impatience and desire to play drove her to take the field again sooner than she should have, and her unwillingness to hold back when she was on the field led to another twist of the knee. One of the reasons she was such a great player was because she had only one gear when playing, and that gear was all out full speed ahead. But at that time, playing and giving it her all was the last thing she should have been doing. She ended up hurting her knee again, prolonging her injury, and along with that her reliance on the prescribed pain medication.
Naively she thought she could do herself no harm with prescribed medications, and so when the pain in her knee was unbearable, she simply doubled and then tripled her dosages. And when she ran out of pills and could not wait for the doctor to refill her prescription, she started buying pills from dealers at school or on the streets. Soon the pill usage was driven not by pain in her knee but by her craving for the feeling she got when she was on the drug. Later, when it became hard for her to come up with the money that she needed to buy pills, she started using heroin because it was so much cheaper.
Once a near perfect student with a 3.98 grade point average, Shannon deteriorated quickly. At first, she gradually took more and more trying to maintain the feeling of being “okay.” But the more she took, the more she slipped. She lost her focus on life, and along with that she lost friends, stopped studying, and her grades dropped. Unfortunately, it was not until she quit soccer, stopped going to church, and started skipping classes at school, that her parents realized that their daughter needed help and intervened. They pulled her from school and put her into rehab. Months passed, and as her friends, like Chris, graduated high school and moved on with their lives to college, Shannon stagnated and crashed even further.
As she stood before Chris there in front of the ER, Shannon had been in rehab three times most recently the past fall. Each time she had made progress, but then eventually had relapsed and crashed even harder. That very evening just before running into Chris, she had scored some pills off a friend who she met during her latest failed rehab effort. She lost track of how many pills she had taken and then as her body reacted, she began wandering the streets, weaving around passersby, trying to work her way to the hospital fearing that perhaps she was overdosing.
“Shannon? Are you okay?” Seeing a vacant, absent look in Shannon’s eyes, Chris reached out to touch her one-time friend’s hand, but Shannon stepped back and pulled away.
“Yeah, I’m fine never better.” There was an empty tone in her voice and a vacant stare in her eyes. “Hey, could you maybe spare me some cash?” she said, her words slurred. Shannon reached her hand out and Chris saw the track marks on her arm. Shannon noticed Chris’s stare and pulled her arm back. “You think you’re better than me. I know. That’s what you think.”
Chris found no words. “Shannon, I.…” She shook her head, feeling a deep sadness for her once friend. After a moment of hesitation, she reached for her purse. Shannon stepped away and started to turn to leave but stumbled and collapsed, falling hard on the sidewalk. It took Chris a moment to react; the whole scenario was so surreal she almost did not realize what was happening. Snapping back to reality, Chris screamed out for help and waved at two of the paramedics who were standing next to their ambulance along the curb. They had just delivered their patient to the ER and were busy loading up equipment. The paramedics heard Chris’s scream and came running. They asked Chris what had happened, but she had no answers and shrugged, shaking her head, feeling numb and in disbelief. They quickly examined Shannon trying to detect breathing or a heartbeat, and then rapidly loaded her up onto the gurney they had brought with them. As the paramedics rolled Shannon away into the ER, Chris stood still, stunned by what she had just witnessed.
Chris stepped inside the ER just in time to see the paramedics wheeling Shannon through an inner set of swinging automatic doors. One of the paramedics guiding the gurney glanced back over his shoulder and then waved to one of the admitting nurses and pointed at Chris. The nurse stood from her chair, walked around the counter, and approached Chris, paperwork in hand. “Excuse me, can you answer some questions for me about that woman they just took inside?”
“I really can’t, um, I’m sorry. We’re…I mean we were friends, back in high school, but I haven’t seen her in years until just, well just tonight, right now, outside there on the ramp.”
“Well, can you at least tell me her name?”
“Oh yeah, sure, her name’s Shannon Bloom.”
“You know her date of birth?”
“Umm, yeah actually I think I do, her birthday is…May 5, and she’s the same age as me, so it’s 1994, yeah, May 5, 1994.”
“You know an address and telephone number?” The nurse glanced up at Chris, hopeful, but thinking she had reached her limit. Chris shook her head, but then realized that she knew where Shannon’s parents lived and could still remember their home address and phone number. She recited this information to the nurse who scribbled it down on her form.
“Anything else you can tell me?”
“Sorry, that’s all I know.”
The nurse smiled, patted Chris on the arm, thanked her, and then retreated behind the counter. Chris walked back out through the main entrance and crossed the street to the parking lot and found her car. Sitting behind the wheel, she clasped the steering wheel and took a deep breath, her mind wandering through assorted memories of fun times in the past with Shannon. She had not thought of those things in so very long, and yet as she let her mind roam, they all seemed to come back, parading through her mind like they had just happened yesterday. She felt a pang of guilt wash over her for not having kept in touch with Shannon over the years. As she backed her car out of the parking space and turned to drive away, she vowed to return the next day to check on Shannon.
***
Casey smiled when he saw his cousin Chris from the kitchen window as she parked her little sports car and made her way up the walk to the front door of Gram’s house. Chris, the daughter of Casey’s Aunt Cecilia, or Cissy as she was called by family, his father’s younger sister, was a spark plug of energy and brightened any venue she graced with her presence. Her family had moved just two falls back and now resided near Knoxville, so when she was in Nashville for the school year at Vanderbilt, she made a point to visit Gram Cooper at least once a week and so also her cousin Casey. Eight years her senior, Casey had always been someone she looked up to as she grew up.
Except for the time he had spent away at college in Knoxville and then law school in Cambridge, Massachusetts, Casey Cooper had lived with Gram since he was just five years old following his parents’ tragic premature deaths in an automobile accident. He was an only child. His sister-to-be died while still in the womb in the accident with his parents. Gram never balked at taking Casey into her care. “That’s what families do,” was a saying she often repeated.
Gram had been the obvious and perfect choice to take in the young boy. Widowed ten years and living alone in the spacious East Nashville family home built at the turn of the last century, Gram welcomed the daily companionship of her grandson. And she embraced the challenge of molding his young mind, encouraging him to read classic after classic in the evenings after his daily jaunts to a nearby baseball diamond with his friends. The works of John Carroll, Hugh Lofting, J.R.R. Tolkien, Charles Dickens, James Fenimore Cooper, and Mark Twain became his mainstays. He read of Alice’s adventures in Wonderland, Doctor Dolittle’s conversations with animals, the young Oliver Twist’s struggles to survive, the story of the last of the Mohicans, and Tom Sawyer’s escapades, along with Marvel and DC comic books, which Gram tolerated, albeit with a raised eyebrow.
Gram cheered on Casey’s athletic career just as much as she did his academic achievements. She attended every junior and senior high school football and baseball game he played. And back in the fall of 1997 as a gift on his eleventh birthday, she even bought a pair of prime seat tickets at Neyland Stadium in Knoxville so that he could watch his idol Peyton Manning lead the Tennessee Volunteers past the No. 13 ranked Georgia Bulldogs.
As much as Casey loved sports, however, Gram kept his eyes focused on what she emphasized to him was the real goal. “You’re having fun, and you’re pretty good, but you aren’t going to be making a living with a ball. So, get your nose in those books.” Gram had a way with words. But it worked. When he graduated high school in 2004 as Valedictorian, first in his class, Gram did not need to apply the slightest pressure. Casey passed on several athletic scholarships that he had been offered to play football and baseball at some pretty decent but not top tier colleges. Making his Gram exceedingly proud, he chose instead to pursue his studies at the University of Tennessee, where the only sports he played were intramural.
And Gram had been even more proud of him when in 2008 he graduated at the top of his class at UT, and then with an exceptional LSAT score, got himself admitted to Harvard Law School. Although the academic rigors of going to Harvard, and the 1,100 miles between Cambridge and Nashville, meant that he would not be driving home every weekend as he had routinely done while he was at UT, Gram knew it was for the best for his future. Sure, she was in her seventies, pushing eighty, and she was definitely not getting around like she used to, but she was more than capable of taking care of herself, and Casey needed to go pursue his dreams.
When he finished fifth in his class at Harvard in 2011, the world seemed available to him. National law firms in New York and D.C. clamored for his attention, and the doors to clerkships with federal circuit court judges, a pathway to a Supreme Court clerkship, opened wide. But just a month before graduation, Gram suffered a heart attack—what the doctors called a cardiac infarction caused by blockage of the left descending artery in her heart—and she had to slow down and recuperate.
Despite warnings from Professor Brightly, his mentor and advisor, as well as his law school friends that the opportunities available to him at that time would not come around again later, he chose to return to Nashville. But regardless of the cost to his career, his decision was an easy one for him and a godsend for Gram. If not for Casey’s return, she would have had to sell the home and move into some form of assisted living facility. Casey could not imagine letting that happen. So, he took a job in the Tennessee Attorney General’s office in Nashville working in the Civil Law Division where they were more than thrilled at their good fortune to have a top Harvard Law grad join their team. And just like that, Casey moved back in with Gram and saved the day.
The AG’s office did not pay nearly what he could have made elsewhere, but what he did make was nothing to scoff at, and most important to him it enabled him to help Gram. As proud as ever, she would not accept a penny of rent from him, nor would she permit him to pay her utilities or other bills, so he found other ways to help lighten her financial load. He insisted on making every run to the grocery store where he regularly bought all of the groceries and other food supplies. Each trip he made to the store she insisted on giving him cash for the groceries, but he just stashed the money in a cannister in the kitchen and saved it for her. Every so often when she was tidying up the kitchen, he would nudge her with subtle suggestions toward the cannister so that she was surprised by the hidden loot. “What in the world? Now, when did I put that there?”
“That’s hard to say, Gram,” was all he would say.
During his first-year home, when she was still recovering from what she called her “episode,” he either did all of her landscaping and other yard work or he paid someone else to do it. He knew how greatly she loved roses, so he had a spot near the back of her yard that was visible from her bedroom window made into a rose garden so that she could look down and admire it. Over the last eight years he had collected many varieties of roses for her, creating a collage of colors that brightened the yard and wafted fresh soft scents to the house when the buds were in full bloom.
He took over cooking responsibilities in that first year as well, and as a result with time and lots of experimentation, he became quite the amateur chef. Living rent and mortgage free, with little to spend his own money on, he put a high-quality treadmill in Gram’s basement as well as the biggest HD big screen television he could find, and then with the help of the cable package he paid for he spent his evenings and weekend mornings running and watching cooking shows, football, or baseball depending on the season. He loved to go to bookstores and peruse the bargain book sections, and so over time he had bought an entire library of cookbooks. He even subscribed to cooking magazines like Bon Appetit and Gourmet, which he kept cataloged as part of his library.
Despite Gram’s mild protestations, he renovated and remodeled her kitchen and bought the grandest grill and smoker available to place on the new backyard deck that he had a contractor build. Family get-togethers at Grams on holidays had since become famous among family members for the lavish meals he served. Turkeys prepared in multiple ways—baked, grilled, smoked, or deep fried—with a variety of seasonings and marinades at Thanksgiving, or prime rib slow-cooked at Christmas, along with smoked ribs and grilled steaks on the Fourth of July, were the talk of his aunts, uncles, and cousins.
With time, Gram’s heart regained much of its strength, and she had not, at least so far, had a recurrence of her “episode.” She delighted in working outside in her garden and with her roses. But aging is relentless, and so she began to slow down in her movements and Casey had noticed and began keeping a watchful eye on her when he was not away working or traveling on one of his trips. When he felt confident that Gram was able to cope alone for a couple of weeks, he took two weeks each year for a planned trek to somewhere new and exotic. So far, he had been to the French Polynesia where he swam with manta rays and sharks in Bora Bora, then to the Maldives where he snorkeled in the Indian Ocean, and then to Tanzania where he took a safari and watched wild zebras and elephants.
Over the years, a few pretty young ladies at church had tried to win his attention, and he had dated a few times, but there had never been anything very serious and nothing lasting more than a few months. There had been Carly, a young school teacher he had dated for about four months, and then Angela, a young nurse whom he dated for about five months, but they were each seriously looking for husbands and both eventually grew tired of waiting on Casey who plainly was not in a hurry. Both had married within a few months of giving up on Casey. He was not opposed to the idea of marrying and having a family—it was just that he had his focus on other things for the time being. He was not into the late-night scene, and drinking and carousing just was not in his makeup. His work, church, and friends, occupied him, and the rest of the time he was either working on some project on the house or planning his next trip.
Casey smiled when he saw Chris wave to him through the window as she skipped up the front steps. She had not been to visit since last Sunday. Her visits were always delightful. “Hey there,” she called as she opened the front door and stuck her head inside, scanning the familiar surroundings. The house was warm and homey, accented with rich wood floors and shelves that Casey had installed over the last few years. Decorations consisted of family photographs, knickknacks, and memorabilia that Gram had collected over the years, including Casey’s sports trophies that Gram insisted on displaying. The bookshelves were loaded with books both Gram’s and Casey’s collections. Gram’s face lit up when she heard Chris, and she stood from her rocking chair, set aside the quilt she had been working on, and raised her arms for a hug.
“Come here child and give your Gram a hug.” Chris entered, shut the door behind her, slipped off her shoes—a habit she had developed as a youngster whenever she visited Gram’s house, and walked over to Gram and gave her a big hug. Smelling the delicious aroma emanating from the kitchen, she turned her attention to Casey and smiled.
“Hey Cuz, whatcha cookin? It sure smells good.” Casey was just putting the final touches of marinara and mozzarella on the chicken parmesan he was preparing. He always made extra when he cooked on Sundays, anticipating that some family member, almost always Chris, would stop by to visit.
“Oh yum, I love chicken parmesan.” Chris hummed her pleasure as she playfully slid across the kitchen floor in her stocking feet, gave Casey a hug, and glanced around his shoulder. “You have to tell me how to make this sometime.”
“Well, there’s no time like the present.” He laughed and waved her closer to the counter. “Step over here and watch and listen. I sliced the chicken breasts in half length-wise to make them thinner.” He pointed. “And then I wrapped them in plastic wrap and used a mallet to flatten them out. You gotta pound ‘em hard…you can’t be timid.” He gave Chris a wink. “Then I dredged them in flour mixed with salt and pepper covering them thoroughly,” he pointed at a plate filed with flour, “then I dipped them in egg-wash,” he pointed at a large flat bowl, “and then I dredged them in a mixture of grated parmesan, breadcrumbs, and various herbs, covering them thoroughly again.” He pointed at the last of the three containers sitting on the counter. “Got that?”
“Sure.” Chris nodded, watching Casey intently.
“Then I covered them with waxed paper and pressed them by rolling over them with a rolling pin.”
Chris wrinkled her brow. “What?”
“Yep. I saw a famous chef do it on a cooking show one time. It makes the breading stick to the chicken better when you sauté them. See, look at those,” he pointed at the golden-brown sautéed breaded chicken in the baking dish, “…it works.” Casey nodded his head in confirmation. “Then I heated my pan with oil on medium heat, and once it was hot, not too hot mind you, I laid them down to sauté. You want to hear a nice sizzle when you lay them down. Then, once they’d cooked about halfway through, I turned them once, and only once.” He laughed, repeating what he had heard from the famous chef. “Then I laid them in the baking dish, placed a dollop of marinara on each followed by grated mozzarella, and now I’m going to slide them into the preheated oven until the cheese melts.”
“What about the marinara?” Chris looked at her cousin in anticipation of further secrets. Casey smiled.
“Well, I do make my own marinara,” he said, his smile broadening, “but…not today.” He stepped to the pantry and reached inside, pulling out a jar of store-bought marinara sauce. He shrugged his shoulders. “I was in a hurry today. I’ll show you how to make my special marinara sauce another time.” He picked up the baking dish and pointed at the oven with his foot. Chris took the hint and opened the oven door. He slid the dish onto the top rack, closed the door, and set the timer. “Voila! Well, almost. It’ll be voila in about ten minutes.”
“Alright, I guess I came just in time then.” Chris let out a laugh as she opened the cupboard, grabbed three plates, slid open a drawer, snatched up three sets of silverware and went to place them on the dining table, only to find that Casey had already set the table for three. There was hardly a Sunday when Chris did not arrive at dinner time and Casey and Gram had grown to anticipate her cheerful presence.
“I guess I’ve become predictable.” Chris giggled, setting the plates and silverware in her hands down on the granite countertop.
“Just a tad.” Casey winked.
“We love having you, sweet pea.” Gram chimed in as she rose and shuffled toward the dining room. Casey cracked the oven door, peeked inside and then opened the door, grabbed hot pads and lifted the baking dish out and set it on the cooktop. After letting the food cool for five minutes, while Gram and Chris took their seats, Casey took each plate one at a time and dished a serving of the chicken along with a small amount of pasta on the side that he topped with marinara. Casey started to take his seat, but then stopped short.
“Oh wait, I almost forgot.” He stepped over to the counter and retrieved a cheese grater that he had preloaded with Romano cheese. “Would you like some grated Romano?” Gram waved him on.
“You know I do, so just get on with it.” She smiled broadly.
“Just tell me when.” Casey cranked and cranked the grater, waiting for Gram to call it enough, eventually stopping and looking down to make sure she was paying attention. She noticed that his grating had stopped and looked up with a frown.
“Keep on goin’ buster.” Casey raised his eyebrows and chuckled. He turned the crank two more times, and she raised her hand. “Stop.”
“Next time I’m just going to serve you a plate of grated cheese.” Casey laughed. Gram scoffed.
“You eat it your way, I’ll eat it mine.” Her face turned from scoff to grin.
Casey gestured with the grater to Chris, who waved him off. He turned the crank twice over his own plate and then took his seat. Casey and Chris exchanged glances, looking to see who would start. Gram broke the spell by leaning forward and reaching out a hand for each of them. They clasped hands and Gram prayed a blessing over their meal.
After her first bite, Chris hummed her approval and Casey let a satisfied smile form on his face. “Gram, you remember Shannon Bloom?” Chris asked and then placed another bite of chicken into her mouth.
“You mean your friend for so many years, the soccer player?” Gram gave an acknowledging nod. Gram and Casey had watched all of Chris’s soccer games and they remembered Shannon well. “What happened to her? I haven’t seen her in years.” Casey’s ears perked up for the news.
“She hurt her knee our senior year, and then she just fell apart. Some kind of problem with pain medication. She got addicted, is what I heard, and then she just crashed. I hadn’t seen her in years, not since her parents pulled her out of school and put her into rehab. Last I heard she was rumored to be taking heroin. It’s really sad. Anyway, I ran into her this afternoon at the hospital, just before I came here. I went over to the maternity ward at Memorial to visit Sally Taylor. She’s Sally Jamieson now and she just had a baby.”
“Oh, that’s nice, boy or girl?” Gram took a bite of her chicken and hummed her approval to Casey, who smiled appreciatively.
“Boy, she named him Alexander after her dad. They’re all doing fine. Anyway, as I was leaving, I saw Shannon standing outside the ER. It took me a while to recognize her, she looked so horrible. I had to take the picture of us out of my wallet and look at it in order to put it together in my mind who she was. We spoke for a second, and then she just collapsed. I think she was overdosing right there in front of me. Paramedics came running over and whisked her off into the ER.” Chris sipped her water somberly.
“That’s terrible.” Gram reached out and touched Chris’s hand. Casey gave Chris a contemplative smile.
“I’ve read a number of really tragic stories lately about good solid people who get hurt, either at work or in sports, and then for pain relief their doctor prescribes them an opioid-based pain medication. Then wham. They end up getting addicted and spiral downhill from there. It’s a sad affair that seems to be far too common.” Casey mused seriously. He did not say this to Chris or Gram, but he had been looking at the opioid situation at work—what some were calling an epidemic. A couple of states were considering whether to sue opioid pharmaceutical manufacturers similar to the way that states, years ago, had sued tobacco manufacturers. Casey had begun to look at the issue with an eye toward giving his boss, the Tennessee AG, a recommendation. “Do you know what medication she first started taking?”
“No, I just remember that it was for pain in her knee. I’m thinking about going back to the hospital tomorrow to check on her.”
“That’s nice of you dear. Please let me give you a card to take to her, and I’ll give you some money also to buy some flowers from the two of us.” Gram was a prolific card writer and loved offering a small bit of cheer—wrapped in God’s love as she would say, to anyone who was sick or otherwise down.
“Thanks Gram.”
“You should check in with her parents as well. You two were so close for so long.”
“You’re right Gram I’ll do that.”
The rest of their dinner was pleasant, with conversation revolving around Chris’s plans post-graduation. It seemed that she was debating on whether to take a year off and travel the world before beginning her efforts at getting into medical school. She queried Casey vigorously about his travels, and he offered some ideas of interesting places where she might visit. The meal was capped off with Gram’s delicious peach cobbler, one that she had prepared just that afternoon after church in anticipation of Chris’s visit. Gram took pride in her cobbler and never grew tired of hearing compliments from family and friends. Casey and Chris topped their servings with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, but Gram shook her head in disagreement, preferring whipped cream on hers. Casey mumbled under his breath something about how the cobbler would require him to hit the treadmill hard later before turning in for bed.
***
Casey’s days always began early. If he was not up and moving by six in the morning he felt as if the world had a head start on him and he would have to spend the rest of the day playing catch up. He assumed it was because he was raised by Gram, who at least as far as he knew never slept past five a day in her life. And this morning he wanted to get into the office and get started taking a deeper look at the opioid issue and possible litigation against the pharmaceutical manufacturers. Chris’s report about Shannon last evening had amplified his interest.
During the Spring and Summer, and even into the early Fall, he routinely started with a run outside usually five miles around the neighborhood. He had a favorite route he took through their East Nashville neighborhood, past historic homes on charming streets, until he hit the trail into the Shelby Bottoms Greenway along the Cumberland River. The Greenway was a series of trails, some paved, others covered with gravel or wood chip, that ran along the water. May temperatures were still comfortable, ranging from a low in the 50s at night to a high in the 70s during the day, so he simply pulled on a pair of shorts, a t-shirt, and running shoes before hitting the street. He ran two and a half miles out, turned around and then retraced the same course. Back at the house, having worked up a good sweat, the shower felt good as he doused his head in the stream of warm water, letting it flow over his shoulders and back.
Gram, after reading her daily collection of newspapers, always had the coffee, a strong French roast, ready by the time Casey finished his shower and came down to make breakfast. This morning it would be eggs benedict, so he filled a deep skillet with water, added a tablespoon of vinegar, placed it on a burner to warm and then started with the hollandaise sauce. Cracking three eggs, he separated the yolks into a sauté pan, and saved the whites in the fridge to use for Gram’s healthy scramble another day. He sliced a lemon, squeezed half of it into the yolks, placed the pan on a burner where he set the gas flame to medium, added a slice of butter and a dash of salt and pepper and started whisking. After blending in another slice of butter, he whisked the yolks until they had thickened but not yet set. He took the sauce off the heat at just the right moment and set it aside.
By the time the sauce was ready, the water was hot enough to start poaching the eggs. He cracked four eggs into the water, making sure that they were separated enough to keep them from running together, and while they poached, he split two English muffins and popped them into the toaster and started another pan to warm the sliced ham. Assembling his creation, he placed the muffin halves down on two plates, covered each with a slice of ham, added a slice of fresh tomato as an unconventional but personal touch, lifted the eggs from the water with a skimmer spoon, slid them into place, one atop each muffin half, and lastly spooned plenty of hollandaise on each.
“Here you go Gram, your favorite.” He set a plate in front of her, and she smiled and waved to him to take his seat. He sat down kitty corner across the table from her and she reached her hand out across the table to him. Gram was a stickler for saying a blessing at every meal. Casey closed his eyes.
He got out of the house early enough that his drive into work over the Woodland Street bridge spanning the Cumberland River was smooth, and the office was only sparsely occupied when he arrived. One of the tradeoffs he had found for the lower salaries paid within state AG’s offices was the more relaxed lifestyle. Without client billings and billable hours to drive expectations to work long hours, state attorneys were allowed the freedom to slow down and take off their packs. For certain, he had seen most Assistant AGs work hard regardless, especially when trials or other tasks required it. But, overall, he saw a slower and less pressured work environment in an AG’s office because unlike private law firms, at the end of the year there was no one reviewing whether lawyers had met required quotas for total billable hours.
He pulled into his parking spot under the building, swiped his door card to enter, and then opted for the stairs rather than the elevator. The extra jaunt up the flights of steps always gave him a little extra exercise to start off his day. He was glad to have been assigned to the Civil Law Division when he first started as a baby lawyer, working on some of the state’s most significant cases, some presenting constitutional issues and others addressing major liability claims against major corporate wrongdoers of one sort or another. He much preferred this work to the rather mundane run-of-the-mill “consumer protection,” “tort liability,” and “regulatory enforcement” matters that some of his colleagues were tasked with handling. Possessing a strong work ethic, something Gram had instilled in him, he left a positive mark on every assignment he touched and soon earned recognition. It was not long before he found himself the go-to lawyer in the Division to head-up the teams assigned to the State’s largest and most complex cases.
He stepped into his office, flipped on the light switch, and hung his suit jacket on the coat hook attached to the back of his door. The corner office that he now occupied, having earned his way into it just last year when its prior occupant had left to take a high paying job with a large private Nashville law firm, was larger than most of those on the floor. A comfortable leather sofa, a hand-me-down from prior occupants, lined one wall. Windows filled two others, and the fourth was painted red to match the Tennessee state flag. He walked to the desk and dropped his leather brief case on the floor alongside the credenza. The briefcase, a gift from Gram upon his passage of the Tennessee bar exam, was reflective of his style in office decor.
Unlike most lawyers who adorn their workspaces with egocentric plaques announcing their credentials, photographs of themselves with someone important, or expensive art work proclaiming their financial success, he surrounded himself with personal memories of family and friends. There was the football he had caught when he and Gram had attended the Tennessee win over Georgia, thrown into the stands by his idol Peyton Manning and autographed years later when he had attended a Colts game in Indianapolis. And there were framed pictures of family and friends from over the years, along with a few of the places he had traveled. “If I have to sit here for hours at a time each day, then I can at least make it feel a little bit like home,” was his pat response to any inquiries he got.
His boss, Tennessee’s Attorney General the Honorable Jasper J. Jackson, a distant descendant of a famous Tennessean—the seventh President Andrew Jackson—had entered office the year before Casey graduated law school, and so had occupied his office for six years of his eight-year term. In most states, the Attorney General is an elected official. Tennessee, however, is one of only seven states with an appointed AG, and it is the only state where the AG is appointed by the state supreme court. General Jackson, or Jaz as he was called by his close friends and confidants, a genial southern gentleman who had been a formidable trial attorney in private practice, was as amiable as the day is long and extremely competent. Casey had sensed from the first moment he met his boss, that beneath his likable, friendly demeanor, lay a sharp intellect and a cunning tactical sense. Jaz was not one to be underestimated, at least not without the risk of significant cost.
Despite his apolitical appointment, as a Republican and thereby aligned in party affiliation with the State’s current governor, Jaz was a frequent target of the press and media who tended to lean to the left. Jaz constantly complained that anytime he agreed with the governor on an issue, they ranted that he was a political hack. But on those occasions when he disagreed with the governor, they simply took no notice. “You just have to make the best decisions you can and then ignore the hyenas,” Jaz always said.
Grabbing his UT mug, Casey exited his office and turned left down the hall toward the coffee station. Passing his executive assistant’s office, he noticed, as expected, that Nan had not yet arrived. But given that it was only half past seven, there was no reason that she should be at work yet. Nan Patron, a motherly southern lady who had worked as a legal secretary, or what is now known as an executive assistant, for more than five times the number of years in Casey’s career, was an invaluable aid to him and others in the Civil Division. She was extremely adept at keeping Casey and the other attorneys she served out of trouble by making sure that they never forgot an appointment or missed a court deadline. Every other office he passed as he walked down the hall, belonging to attorneys and paralegals in the Civil Division, was similarly empty. The calm of the morning before the buzz of the office amped up when others arrived was something Casey relished.
He returned to his desk, eased himself down into his leather chair, lifted his mug to his mouth, inhaled the deep aroma of the coffee, and took a sip. He knew that he had about a half-hour before people would start arriving in droves. Clicking on his computer, he opened his internet browser and typed in a search for information on litigation against opioid pharmaceutical manufacturers. “Mornin,” Casey heard from over his shoulder. He smiled at the sound of the familiar voice, clicked off his browser, and picked up his mug. So much for early morning research, he thought. “Well, you’re certainly early this mornin’,” the familiar voice said. Casey took a sip of his coffee, spun his chair around, and looked at his watch.
“I’m early every morning,” Casey chuckled, “which is something that late risers like yourself wouldn’t know.” Casey took another sip of his coffee and then smiled at his friend. Clayton Maxwell, known to his friends as Maxie, had never, as far back as Casey could remember, seen the inside of the office before eight a day in his career. “Has there been a crack in the Universe? Or did Margie finally have the good sense to throw you out on your ear, and so you slept here last night?”
“Now be nice. You know that little darlin’ loves me. Begs me to stay home with her every mornin’.”
“I’ll bet she does. And I guess if I was married to a woman as beautiful as Margie, I’d come in late every morning as well.” Margie Maxwell, a sweet blonde haired, blue eyed, Georgia peach from Augusta, was a mother of two adorable little girls and also a Vice President at a local bank. Banking hours meant that she “had the leisure of enjoying her mornings” as bachelor Casey often said to Margie’s annoyance when he visited the Maxwell home for dinner.
“Let me drop the girls off at your house some mornin’, and then we’ll just see how much leisure you enjoy,” was her standard response. Margie was as sharp as she was sweet, and she was never one to tangle with in a debate. Casey pointed at the nearest chair across from his desk as an invitation. Maxie stepped inside the office and flopped into the chair.
“So, what exactly is it that got you up and away from your lovely bride so early this morning?” Casey took another sip of coffee.
“You obviously haven’t heard the news.” Maxie, a cross-over from Special Prosecutions, “the dark side” as he jokingly called it, had moved to the Civil Division the same year that Casey had arrived and they had worked together on cases ever since, becoming close friends. Maxie had spent his first four years with the AG’s office prosecuting political crimes, which meant bribery and extortion against members of the Tennessee state legislature and corporate executives and lobbyists who took the concept of “greasing the skids” of the political process too literally. Maxie was one-part talented trial attorney and a second-part bloodhound. If there was a rumor in the office, Maxie was always on top of it, and he relished his role as news bearer. He sat back in the chair and gave Casey his best “I know something you don’t know” grin. Casey had seen this grin many times, so he knew that it would just go on until he finally popped the question. Casey rolled his eyes.
“Okay, spill the beans what’s up?” Maxie’s eyes widened and he sat up and leaned forward.
“The boss is creating a new division, Special Litigation. They finally recognized just how special we are and so they’re giving us our own division.” He smiled broadly. Casey gave his friend an amused frown.
“How is that such shocking news?” Casey and four other attorneys in the Civil Division, including Maxie, had essentially been operating as a de facto Special Litigation team or division for the last three years. When the state had a large complex piece of civil litigation to take on, no matter whether it was in state or federal court, the five attorneys in their team were the ones tasked with the case.
“New division means more independence. Think of it there’ll be a new Division head, somebody’s getting a new job, new responsibilities, maybe more money.” Maxie grinned bigger. “We won’t be answering to old Iron Sides anymore, no sir.” Iron Sides was Maxie’s favorite nickname for the Civil Division head, Mary Kilameade, a tough lawyer of nearly four decades experience, who had battled her way up through the ranks during times when the legal profession was not as open as it is now to female advancement. “Who do you think it’ll be?” Maxie winked.
“Just so you know, if it’s you, I’m looking for a new job.” Casey smiled and waved as Nan walked by to her office, “Mornin’ Nan.”
“Good mornin’,” she called out as she hung up her coat in her office next door.
“I … am … the senior member of our team.” Maxie turned his palms up and shrugged, giving Casey a dopey grin just as Tracey Duncan, the youngest member of their team, stepped inside the office, flipped her long brunette locks out of her face, and flashed a smile. Tracey, just three years out of Vanderbilt law school, had spent her growing up years in Alaska while her father, a Tennessee native, was stationed at Elmendorf Airforce Base near Anchorage as an F-15 pilot and squadron leader. Her family had relocated to Nashville following her father’s retirement to be near family, and she had finished her final year of undergraduate studies at Cumberland College before entering law school.
“What’s going on? What’re you guys talking about?” Tracey stepped quickly past Maxie to the second chair in front of Casey’s desk and sat down. “It must be something important if Maxie’s here already.” She gave Maxie an apologetic nod. “Sorry, but you know it’s true.”
“My reputation precedes me.” Maxie facetiously flipped his chin up and stared at the ceiling.
“We were just discussing how Maxie is old and decrepit compared to the rest of us.” Tracey let a snicker escape her lips. Maxie opened his eyes wide in mock shock.
“We’re becoming an official Division, and someone is gettin’ promoted.” Maxie tilted his head and glanced at Tracey with an air of confidence. Tracey’s eyes lit up and her face gleamed.
“Congratulations Casey!” She nodded her head exuberantly and clapped her hands together. Maxie’s mouth dropped open, and he looked to Casey for support.
“Why exactly do you automatically assume that it’s Casey?” Maxie gave Tracey his best imitation of hurt feelings. Tracey sat up, turned to squarely face Maxie, and cleared her throat in preparation to answer. Maxie raised his hand.
“Never mind.” He waved her off before she answered and gave Casey his best imitation of a Rodney Dangerfield I don’t get no respect shrug. Casey just grinned and sipped his coffee.
“Casey,” Nan’s voice called from next door. Their heads all turned at the same moment. Casey stood, walked out into the hall, turned, and then walked to the door of Nan’s office. They always joked about Nan being their boss, but jest mimicked reality whenever she called and they came running. Casey popped his head inside Nan’s door, “Yes boss?”
“Meg just called from upstairs. The AG wants to see you this morning.”
“What? What about?” Casey waited expectantly, the slightest apprehension in his voice.
“Now, if they’d wanted me to know that, I suppose they’d have told me.”
“Right, okay, thanks Nan.” Casey backed out into the hall and started to turn back toward his office, but then stopped in his tracks. “Uh, did they say when?” He popped his head back into Nan’s office.
“Now. You probably don’t want to keep the General waiting too long.” She gave Casey a mischievous smile. Casey scrambled back to his office, brushed past Maxie and Tracey who were now leaning out the door so that they could listen to everything Nan had said, and grabbed his suit coat off the back of his door. “I’m going upstairs.” He pointed at the ceiling. Tracey smiled and clapped. Maxie smiled and shook his head.
“Well, I’ll be doggoned. Congratulations, buddy,” Maxie said.
“How do you know he’s not firing me?” Casey gave his friends a wide-eyed questioning look. Maxie touched his chin and pondered for a second.
Tracey shook her head vigorously. “No way.” She slapped Maxie’s shoulder and gave him a playful frown.
“I call dibs on your office if he does.” Maxie let out a laugh as he pretended to survey Casey’s office.
“You better get going,” Tracey said as she straightened Casey’s tie and the collar on his suit coat.
Maxie turned back to his friend and waved him to get going. Casey dashed out of his office, called out to Nan that he was on his way up stairs, exited to the hall, and hit the stairs running.
