It’s that stupid Stone Dumelin who’s thrown off my entire day. Just a two-minute exchange with him, and I can’t stop worrying about Brooks’s estate and whether Stone will cooperate.
Actually, I don’t wonder about that. I know he won’t, and I know he’ll never step foot in this office again. It makes it infinitely harder to carry out Brooks’s wishes, and the most I can do is reach out in writing and give him a bit more explanation.
And until I send out that communication, I know I won’t be able to concentrate on anything else.
I save the draft answers to interrogatories for the Graves’ case and exit out of it. I pull up the template letterhead in Word, prepared to start my letter to Stone Dumelin.
I type in bold letters, all caps: VIA CERTIFIED MAIL, RETURN RECEIPT REQUESTED.
No email to Stone. I want to know he has this letter in hand so I can be assured he’s on official notice of the bequeaths made to him. What he chooses to do with that is up to him, but I’m hoping to spark enough of his interest that a future conversation might occur.
After typing in the reference to his case, I start the letter formally: Dear Mr. Dumelin.
It’s as far as I get before I have to lean back in my chair and think how to handle this. It calls for a bit of mental manipulation, and I’m not above that. Especially after the jerk broke my Hepplewhite.
But I knew he’d be a jerk. At least Brooks had me convinced of that.
Glancing down at Odin happily snoozing beside my desk, I do wonder if Stone has any good in him. Odin is a gentle dog, but his breed can be wary of strangers. Rather than hang back by my side while sizing up Stone, he went into full-on protection mode. Was that because he sensed something sinister? Brooks painted his brother in a not-so-flattering light over the last year, but nothing that would cause me concern for my safety.
And yet Odin growled and advanced on him. He’s never done that before, and that includes getting harassed by men sometimes when we go out for a run. Usually his size is enough to keep most men a good fifteen feet back.
“What did you sense about him?” I muse, and something in my tone brings Odin out of his sleep. He lifts his big head and tilts it, starting at me speculatively. “Is he a bad person, or have circumstances just made him extra ornery?”
Odin chuffs—not sure if that’s an agreement with one of my options or an indication he’s as perplexed as I am, but he sets his head back down. It’s after his eyes slowly close in slumber that I lean forward in my chair and start typing.
I always smile as I type the first few sentences of any document. My father, the esteemed Robert Frederick Alston III, current managing partner of the Alston Law Group—where my aunt Hayley works—would be appalled to see me doing my own work this way. Over at my dad’s chrome-and-steel office in the sky, there are pools of secretaries who do nothing but transcribe dictations from the attorneys. Even the younger ones who are all adept at typing their own stuff don’t bother to flex their fingers. It would be beneath their hourly billing rate to waste on typing when they could bill out legal theory and strategy.
I guess it’s a status symbol, but I think it’s a waste of resources, especially when I can type faster than I can dictate, and I can make changes as I go along. I’m far more efficient, and I don’t bill nearly the hourly rate that my family members across the river charge.
If I sound disapproving, trust me, I’m not. I love them all and have mad respect for their prowess. They are one of the best-regarded firms in the entire state.
Just as they don’t disapprove of my desire to own a small firm to help more of the downtrodden than the elite rich. Sure, I get teased at get-togethers, and it’s a well-known fact that this is little more than a hobby versus a means to live. My career is immensely enjoyable because I can freely help those I want.
At least that was the case until Stone Dumelin got dumped in my lap.
So, dear Mr. Dumelin… listen up, asshole.
I’m sincerely regretful our meeting today—although spontaneous and spur of the moment—was not more productive. I’m afraid you’re laboring under some deep pain and simply don’t know how to relate to the fact that you have always been on your brother’s mind, even if it hasn’t felt that way.
There. A little tease that I know far more about his family dynamics than he could have imagined. He made reference to me handling this case for the money, and he’s so wrong about that. I’m doing this because I loved Brooks.