Something Unfortunate

Chapter 5

FIVE

The voices of the two arguing men carried down the hallway on the south side of the firm’s offices. The door to Ken’s office had remained open from the first angry word as the two law partners tore at each other without apparent regard for who might hear them. Maybe neither of the combatants realized the door was open because they were so caught up in their personal battle. Or maybe they both knew it was open, but wanted to use the public nature of their argument for their own means – Ken to engender sympathy from other lawyers for this latest vicious attack from Frank Oliver, and Frank to impress upon everyone else in the section that he would not condone challenges to his authority. Whatever the reason, their voices bolted through the open door and into the hallway.

Embarrassed secretaries huddled over word processors, furiously typing as they tried to pretend they couldn’t hear what they obviously could. Around the corner, Joey Stephens and Clint Raymond fidgeted uneasily in Clint’s office, listening to the battle royale between their partners. Although Ken and Frank had argued before, it had never been quite so public. The open door offered a new twist on their feud. Joey and Clint periodically exchanged embarrassed glances but, for the most part, they merely stared out the window and listened.

Joey had been with the firm, working for Frank Oliver, for ten years, and during that time Frank had always held the reins tightly on his clients. From the day Joey got his first file from Frank, he found himself handicapped because Frank insisted on being the funnel for all client contact. Joey thought bottleneck was a better description than funnel. When he needed authorization from a client to take a specific action, he had to wait for Frank to get it for him. When he needed information, he had to wait for Frank to get it. When he ghostwrote letters to clients that had to go out over Frank’s signature, he had to wait for that signature.

And he often found himself called on the carpet by Frank, who was embarrassed by his own lack of familiarity with a particular file – as if it were Joey’s fault that he was ignorant. Joey cringed every time a client wanted to meet with Frank because there would always be at least one question that Frank was unable to answer, and Joey would be blamed for not properly briefing him. Joey thought, but never told Frank, that the logical solution would be for Frank to let him talk directly to the clients. Either that or Frank should get more actively involved in the files. Good logic, Joey thought. But Frank’s logic was not Joey’s logic.

Over the years, Joey had learned to deal with Frank’s system. If Frank wanted to be in charge – if his ego demanded that – so be it. As a former jock, an injury-prone running back at TCU, Joey knew about ego and self-promotion, terms that were almost synonymous with athletics. Himself humble and self-effacing, Joey wasn’t now, nor had he ever been, interested in glory and credit. If that meant being obscured in the shadows while Frank created his own sun, he would do that. Joey strongly believed in teamwork. He always had.

A loud noise coming from Ken’s office suddenly cut through the arguing voices. It sounded like the two combatants had moved from throwing insults to throwing objects.

“That’ll cost you,” Ken said. “That’s an antique.”

Frank Oliver stood next to a broken chair and listened to Ken lecture him like he was a little boy. It embarrassed him – he hadn’t meant to break the chair – but his embarrassment fueled his rage. He struggled to find a way to blame Ken. After all, how was Frank to know the chair was an antique? And how was he to know the stupid thing was fragile and would fall apart at the slightest touch? Ken knew but hadn’t bothered to tell Frank. If he had, Frank wouldn’t have touched it. He would have kicked something else, of course, but it was Ken’s fault. Ken should have stopped him when he pulled back his foot to deliver the blow.

“I expect you to pay for that,” Ken said.

Frank’s tomato-red face transformed to plum-purple. His lip quivered and, with each twitch, it exposed clenched teeth, giving him the appearance of a rabid dog.

“I don’t care what you expect,” Frank said. He kicked a leg from the broken chair across the floor. “You’re not going to make me look bad, Mister, I’ll tell you that right now.”

Ken flinched as the chair leg skittered across the hardwood floor and crashed into the wall. He walked around the side of his desk and advanced toward Frank.

“I want you to leave my office,” Ken said as he came toe to toe with Frank. He pointed over Frank’s shoulder to the door. “Get the hell out of my office.”

Frank stepped back a pace, then set his feet, legs shoulder-width apart, and put his hands on his hips. With purple face, pulsing veins, and defiant stance, he resembled a troll guarding his bridge.

“I’m not leaving until I’m good and ready,” Frank said. “And you can’t make me.”

“Shoo!” Ken said, swatting at the air. “Get on out of here.”

Frank stood his ground for a moment, fists clenched and lip quivering. Embarrassment fought with rage for control of his mind. He c****d his arm, as if to throw a punch. Ken waited for the blow, but it never came.

“Go on,” Ken said. “Get the hell out of here.”

Frank turned and stomped out the door. Thirty feet down the hallway, he paused outside his own office. He looked back at Ken, who stood by his office and watched, guarding his own bridge.

“This is not over, Mister,” Frank said. “Not by a long shot. I’m not through with you.” Then he entered his office and slammed the door.