The Attorney's Assistant (1)
Shelley J Alongi

 

The Assistant

by Shelley J Alongi

Written in 2002
Revised 2007

1

Two US attorneys stopped in for a quick, satisfying lunch at an Arbbys Restaurant near their office in Demoine, Iowa. Now, finishing their lunch
and their conversation about The Chicago cubs, they prepared to return to work. John Grimes, 44, tall, gray haired,
got up and headed for the door. The dark haired Neal Graham, 40, finished off his Doctor Pepper and followed him. Stopping by the trash can, he lightly tossed his cup into the receptacle, and skillfully taking charge of the controls on his wheelchair, followed his friend out into the humid Midwestern afternoon.

�Anna is going to kill me for drinking that,� said Graham, �but oh, well. Sometimes I just have to.�

�Doctor Pepper?� said the man, briefly looking back over his shoulder to cast a confused glance at his friend, �what�s wrong with that?�

�Oh, you know Anna,� said Graham good-naturedly, �she�s always trying to get me to eat right!�

�She thinks it helps your MS?�

�Oh, I think she thinks it does, but I�m starting to think that maybe she�s just a health nut.�

He smiled a little, obviously indulgent of his wife�s preference for healthy food.

�But hey,� he said, as the two attorneys quickly made their way through the concrete parking lot to John Grimes� blue Toyoda Camry, �I know there�s a chocolate cake in the refrigerator back at the office. It�s my secretary�s birthday.�

�Sure enough, Neal, and we know who�s getting the biggest piece!�

John chuckled as he took his car keys out of his pocket and unlocked Neal�s side of the car.

�Well it�s back to work on that damned case again.�

�I can handle another three hours of checking phone records of that big drug company,� Neal said, getting out of his wheelchair and balancing himself with his cane before proceeding to get into the car. He buckled himself in and shut the door.

�Oh, well, Neal, you always were one for details; nit picking, I guess that�s why you�re one of the top attorneys in this part of the Federal system. They
didn�t give you those awards for nothing, I suppose.�

John slid Neal�s briefcase onto the floor by his feet.

�Don�t forget this, Mr. Brilliant Attorney,� he smiled.

�Thanks,� Neal replied, his face red from embarrassment.

The key clicked into place and John maneuvered the car on to the street and then silently cursed as traffic suddenly halted.

�Damn tourists!�

�Patience,� admonished the passenger in a tone he sometimes used with his two younger daughters, �Patience. We�ll get there. Those phone records aren�t
going anywhere.�

Neal reached down to the floor and retrieved his briefcase. Searching through its organized contents, he found his cell phone and placed a call to his Secretary,
Liz Miller.

�You have an appointment, Mr. Graham.�

�Oh?� He was a bit surprised. �Who is it?�

�Meg Anderson, the new prospect for your legal assistant.

�Oh,� groaned the attorney, �And I�m going to be late. That looks good.�

�God, my brain is going,� commented Neal, putting his phone away. �I forgot the new girl is coming in today. Flew in all the way from California.�

�You hired her?�

He shook his head.

�Joe did. Her credentials look good. Very impressive. One heck of a researcher, that�s for sure.�

�Meg?�

�You know Meg,� said Neal taking some interest.

�Yes I know Meg.�

�How?�

�Attorney, client privilege, Neal.�

Neal laughed, his face breaking into a smile.

�This isn�t a conflict of interest is it?�

�No, no,� said the driver, pulling into the parking structure of the federal building that housed the courts and the US Attorney�s office.

�Want to talk about it?�

Neal opened his door, put his cane on the ground, climbed out, holding on to it for support. John got the chair out of the car.

�Perhaps over coffee later. You know, when we cut the cake for Liz. Megs a good woman. She�ll serve you well. She�s a great asset to any office.�

�That was an oblique statement,� mused Neal Graham, transferring himself to his wheelchair, tucking in all the loose ends, taking the briefcase out of John�s hand.

The two attorneys started for the office, but stopped as a tall woman wearing a gray suit, and carrying a briefcase and cell phone held the door for them. Neal waved as he started for the elevator, but John lingered.

�Hello, Meg.�

Meg glanced toward the disappearing attorney, then back to the one who had spoken.

�Yes, that�s your new boss, Meg. You�ll like him.�

�Thanks for the heads up. How are you, John?�

�I�m doing well. Jill and the kids are great, my oldest graduates from SIU this summer.�

�Terrific.�

�How are you?�

�Okay.�

�You finished law school?�

�Something like that. I have my paralegal license.�

�Yes, I know. You�re moving here then?�

�Sure,� said the woman, �I almost moved across the country once. I think I can do it again.�

The attorney and the woman moved away from the door as other staff members from the Justice Department entered the lobby. They talked quietly in a corner partially hidden from view by a silk plant and an overstuffed chair.

�So, Meg, did you ever get married?�
�You mean after turning down such an attractive proposal from you almost 20 years ago?� the woman smiled easily at her own humor. �No, I haven�t gotten married.
I�m too intensely interested in reading old documents that no one wants to read any more. At least not anyone in my generation.�

John laughed.

�So now you�re moving here to go to work for Neal. Well, I�ll stay out of your way, Meg.�

�It won�t matter, John. This county is big enough for both of us. I�ve purchased a small house not far from here. I�ve already established some connections,
a church, a choir, the library. I�m scheduled for an interview with the MS Society volunteer coordinator. I won�t be lacking for things to do.�

�Sounds like you, Meg. Always on top of things. Well, my congratulations to you, then. Neal knows he�s got a good assistant working for him.�

The attorney and the new assistant entered the elevator, and stood facing each other, perhaps both remembering a relationship long ago ended out of mutual
agreement.

�The world is indeed small,� he said allowing Meg to step out of the elevator before him. John pointed toward Neal�s office and together they walked down the carpeted halls, passing open doors with attorneys and secretaries typing on computers, closed doors with people in consultation. One man held the telephone writing some notes.

John pulled up short of a well-lighted office and said goodbye to Meg Anderson. He pointed down the hall.

�Two doors down on the right. Liz will take care of you.�

Meg stepped into a small office and waited patiently at the desk of a young woman whose attention was held by a computer screen. The elegantly dressed woman looked up and noticed Meg.

�May I help you?�

�I�m here for my appointment with Mr. Graham.�

�OF course you are.�

Liz picked up the phone and spoke a few words into it.

�Go on in. He�s waiting.�

Meg nodded and stepped back to an office whose door was open. She did not see him at first. She knocked gently.

�Come on in!�

The assistant U.S. attorney sat behind his oak desk, relaxed and obviously comfortable. He nodded to her to take a seat while he finished his work.

She sat quietly, observing him as he concentrated hard on the project at hand. Quickly she surveyed the desk, saw several framed photographs, those she presumed to be his wife and five daughters. She could see the resemblance to him in one of them, it was the way she held herself, straight, shoulders back,
that smile decorating the corner of her mouth. She knew that one to be Debra Anne, the Graham�s oldest daughter. Meg, knowing the man had been diagnosed
with MS approximately thirteen years earlier, wondered if he wore shoes, his feet hidden beneath the massive dignity of the solid, oak desk. He looked comfortable, relaxed. He wore his gray pants, a white shirt and a tie well, not at all stifled by them. She glanced away from him briefly, saw the white
walls, the blue carpet, the floor to ceiling bookcases with law books, a small coffee pot on a shelf behind the desk, some more photographs, a few plaques on the wall, perhaps his degrees in English and criminal law. She moved her eyes discretely back to his hands.

In his right hand he held a pen with which he made meticulous notes on a piece of white paper. A book stood open on the desk and he kept his head buried in it, his gaze focused on the columns that were before him. Meg watched the movement of the hands, sure, confident, securely holding the black pen between his fingers, resting the pen in his palm, drawing lines and curves representing letters on the page. After a moment, he laid aside the pen and looked up.
She saw a man with a smallish, compact face, warm brown eyes, curly brown hair. He put out a hand and Meg Anderson reached across the desk to shake it.

�Mr. Graham. It�s nice to meet you.�

�Miss Anderson, how nice to see you at last. You have rescued me from checking the phone records of a drug dealer.�

�I know you have experience with phone records Mr. Graham.�

�That I do. You are right. But I�m afraid I�m neglecting my duties. Can I get you coffee?�

�Sure, that would be nice, thank you.�

Neal Graham picked up the white phone on his oak desk and spoke a few words to his secretary. She appeared moments later with a silver tray and set it before
Miss Anderson. Suddenly, the attorney dropped his formal manner and smiled.

�So you�re the one who has been stocking me for five years?�

�Stocking you? Oh, no, just doing a lot of well thought out research.�

Neal glanced quickly toward Meg who was unknowingly about to spill her coffee. He reached forward and pushed the flowered cup under the spout of the coffee carafe

�You don�t have to be so nervous,� he said perhaps in that reassuring way he would use to comfort one of his small frightened daughters, �I really don�t bite; honestly, I don�t.�

�I know, Mr. Graham. I am kind of nervous. It�s why I wouldn�t make a good litigator, why I stuck to doing legwork for attorneys and such.�

�Yes, your research record is impressive. I must say that for you.�

�I was amazed when this position came open. I said five years ago I wanted to meet you, and here you are.�

�Oh,� said the attorney with a roguish grin, �I think you�ve done a bit better than that!�

The man opened a desk drawer and rummaged around for a moment, finally emerging with a document.

�Miss Anderson I am prepared to offer you a position on behalf of the US Attorney if you want it.�

Meg smiled and signed the papers.
But she still had a burning question.

Perhaps it was from his twenty years of scrutinizing faces in a great number of court rooms and consultations that he deduced that Meg was curious about something. �Miss Anderson, you want to ask me something, I can see that.�

�It�s a very unprofessional question. One of personal interest.�

�Okay,� said the Federal prosecutor, snapping the lid on the black pen and twirling it. �You work here now. Ask away.�

�Are you wearing shoes?�

He sat still for a moment, contemplating, his brown eyes somber, then he couldn�t keep a straight face and all the boyish charm that endeared him to others outside the office erupted into a smile perhaps the one he used on his daughters, and he laughed, causing his eyes to sparkle. He skillfully pushed himself away
from the desk, turned his chair toward her, showed white socks, no shoes.

�Only in the court, and if I could get away with not wearing them, you know I would.�

He put his foot rest down and slid himself behind the desk again. He put out his hand.

�Now you�ve been initiated. I know I don�t have to ask you why you asked that question. Welcome.�

2

Six months later, Meg Anderson proved to be a marvelous assistant. She adapted quickly to the routine: waking up in the morning in her small house, preparing coffee, showering, dressing, driving the short distance to the office. She undertook a startling array of duties for Liz Miller, Mr. Graham�s
secretary: filing, copying, getting coffee, sometimes ordering lunch in for him in consultation with a client or another attorney. If something needed
to be done and Liz was unavailable to do it, she gladly stepped in to take up the slack. The U.S. attorney and his assistant, Neal Graham, began to gather
enough evidence for themselves to see that Meg was a trustworthy, reliable individual.

At the end of a particularly trying day in the Southern District of Iowa court, Neal gathered a team of attorneys around him in a small office. Meg sat
unobtrusively making notes, observing Neal�s quiet, tense face. He held his hands tightly, clenching them as if to quell some unspoken feeling. The messenger which had just delivered a document scurried away like a frightened mouse.

�Mr. Carlson,� began the Assistant US Attorney his voice laced with tenseness, �There was a considerable deal of heated exchange between you and defense council this afternoon. I hope
that was cleared up?�

The younger lawyer shook his head, no.

�I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Carlson. You are usually quite skilled at dealing with these things. The prisoner is getting his meals, enough sleep, and
enough light. You need to work that out with the defense. The place to work that out is not outside the jury room. You understand me?�

�Yes, Mr. Graham, I understand that.�

�You are aware that I am staying out of this till you successfully work it out.�

�Yes, I understand.�

�Good, Mr. Carlson.�

Meg Anderson admired Neal for one thing: his professional conduct in the courtroom, on the street, in the office. He was usually calm, cool,
rarely out of sorts with anyone. She was a bit surprised. She transcribed the meeting and made notes about the reactions of the others in consultation with the senior lawyer.

�We are US Attorneys, and we are to conduct ourselves in a professional manner and nothing less. My reputation is on the line here, ladies and gentlemen,
and I don�t intend to have it stained by someone�s misconduct. Is that clear?�

Was Neal Graham one of the Assistant US attorneys for the southern District of Iowa, or was he a stern father reprimanding his children for inappropriate
behavior? Meg thought maybe there was a bit of both people in this stern-faced individual tightly clenching his hands, glancing from one attorney to another.
The attorney who had caused the stir was quelled under the prosecutor�s gaze. It was clear to Meg and the others in the room that he was upset about being
reprimanded.

�I will work it out, Mr. Graham,� the attorney said, contritely. �I am sorry.�

�I expect nothing less from you, Mr. Carlson.�

The lawyers filed somberly out of the office, said goodbye to each other and separated quickly.

Meg followed Neal as he wheeled himself down the marble halls of the court. She inserted the key into the elevator and they both entered. They were alone. Meg stood in the corner discretely glancing at Neal.
An electric spark went through her as she saw him. His eyes burned, his face a bit red, he sat quietly, trying to regain his peaceful demeanor. He looked kind of sexy when he was angry. It was the most unprofessional thought she had had about the federal prosecutor since asking him
if he wore shoes. She was not disappointed in his conduct. He had not lost his temper, he had been angry, yes, but indiscrete, no. She wondered if he would go home and take a swim now to relieve some of the fierce energy that tried to spill out of his eyes. She looked away from the lawyer�s face, afraid her feelings would show. They exited the elevator and entered the warm lobby. Meg was only too glad for the stiff breeze that met them as they entered the
court�s parking structure.

�Mr. Graham, shall I meet you at the office?�

�Briefly.�

Neal went his way to the car, Meg followed him, put his briefcase in the back, gave him a hand as he transferred from his chair to the driver�s seat. She
stepped back and shut the door and watched him put the keys into the ignition. He sat with his hands on the wheel, turned his head to look at his assistant.

�Thanks for your help.�

He seemed a bit perplexed at his own strong feelings.

�Sure.�

�Are you afraid of me, too?� he wanted to know, smiling a bit.

�No, I�m not afraid of you. I don�t think the other team members are afraid of you, either.�

�Just not used to such forceful expressions of disquiet. Perhaps that is it.�

�Everyone has had a hard day, Mr. Graham. I think we�re all just ready for a swim.�

Now the tenseness in the attorney�s face lessened and he involuntarily chuckled.

�Okay, you�re on. I�ll send an inner office memo!�

3

Meg had a life outside the U.S. Attorney�s office. She rehearsed once a week with a local choir, took up with one of the Bible studies in a local church,
and spent a great amount of time volunteering for the local MS society office. She did a lot of filing and mailings. She knew all the office staff and
liked them. One person she met frequently running in and out, carting about her three younger children, was Anna Graham, her boss�s wife. She liked Mrs.
Graham very much. Sometimes they actually worked together when Mrs. Graham wasn�t headed for a PTA meeting or a soccer game, a book club meeting, or some
such family event.

Time, as it does, moved along, and people knew Megs competence, her friendliness, her dedication to her work. Neal spoke to Anna of Meg�s outstanding qualities
as a researcher and her maturity in handling situations which arose in relation to his MS. If he dropped something or needed some bit of help, Meg, without making a great show of it, or standing about fumbling for a correct word or gesture, stepped in, retrieved an object, did something to smoothly help him
accomplish some task.

�Do you read a lot about MS?� he asked her once.

�I�ve certainly read my share of things. Can�t pronounce most of the medication names, but I can learn.�

The attorney smiled, recounting this story to his wife. So when Anna Graham needed someone who could step in to assist her husband while she attended a Writers conference for a weekend, naturally, and with the consent of husband and wife, Meg was approached about pinch hitting as a caregiver.

Meg had just come in from a quiet dip in her Jacuzzi and had settled down with an Ernest Hemingway novel when her telephone jangled noisily.

She gasped in amazement.

�You want me to come assist Mr. Graham next weekend? This isn�t job related, right?�

�MS related.�

�Okay.�

Meg went about her duties as usual during the week, mysteriously appearing in Neal�s office with documents, papers, messages, but never did they speak of the upcoming weekend. They didn�t speak of it till Thursday afternoon at lunch. He had asked her to bring in sandwiches and coffee. She sat across from him in the same chair she had occupied perhaps nine months earlier.

�Anna and I both agreed you would be good for this weekend�s work.�

�I�ll do my best.�

�We�ll pay you, of course.�

�Pay me? Oh, living in Iowa doesn�t require so much, Mr. Graham. I wasn�t expecting that.�

�Well,� Neal announced mischievously. �We do have a subscription to Westlaw I�ll be happy to grant you the pass word while you�re there.�

Meg smiled and the attorney knew that was all the extra compensation she needed.

�So,� he said returning to his former manner, �Anna told you what we need done?�

�She told me you give your own injections. She said I would be responsible for some light cleaning, some cooking, just an extra pair of hands around in case something comes up.�

�Like an attack?� he said not entirely joking.

�Could be,� meg replied. �It�s always something to be considered.�

She arrived at the Graham�s sprawling, two story house promptly at 7:00 that Thursday evening. She would stay till early Sunday afternoon. She was shown the guest bedroom, and given a tour of the house.

�Neal is upstairs,� explained Mrs. Graham, accounting for his absence during her acquaintance with the house. �He takes betaserone. He administers his own shots. Today was shot day. We�ve just started that, and so he�s still having some side affects. You probably won�t see him much, he usually stays in bed,
sleeps it off. Maybe by Sunday he�ll be up an about. This is one thing that has been hard, lately, I don�t know if you�ve noticed at the office.�

 

 

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Copyright © 2007 Shelley J Alongi
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