Third Place
A Lawyer's Bag
Written by Rodney Moore
The year after her father died was a blur. Perhaps nobody is ready, but Samantha certainly was not. He lived a full and enriching life but died abruptly in a car wreck. No time for planning or goodbyes. One moment here, the next gone—just the way he would have wanted it, Samantha thought to herself as she looked around what had been his law office, now hers.
Her eyes locked on his briefcase, sitting on the floor in the corner of the room. It was a leather, expandable bag with a wide hinged opening at the top which opened like an alligator’s mouth, at least that’s the way he described it to her as a little girl to keep her out of it. It was worn and scratched from decades of use. In her mind, it seemed like he had it with him always.
Her mind danced back to childhood when he would come home from work carrying his bag. She would ask, “What you have in there?”
And he would respond, “Stories, fables, and tall tales. What shall it be today, my dear?”
She would twist around a bit, put her finger to her chin as though in serious ponder, and then shout her response, most usually exclaiming, “The tallest of tales.” Occasionally, more reserved, “Just a story today.” And most rare, somewhat solemnly, “Give me the fable.”
Just as animated, he would ceremoniously open the bag and mime as though he were flipping through a multitude of files muttering as he decided which would fit best. And then with flare, he would extract his hand from the bag as if he were holding a book and declare, “Yes, this one will work just fine.” Though different, each telling was concise, funny, and ultimately important to Samantha.
She thought to herself, what I wouldn’t give for one more story from his bag.
It was with him the day he died. She had pulled it from the wreckage and brought it into the office and placed it where it sits now, unopened. She wasn’t sure if she made a conscious decision not to open it or just didn’t. Either way, today, the anniversary of his death, she felt pulled to open it and see what was inside.
Among its contents were items she knew well, they were a part of him: business cards, a bow tie, legal pads, his pipe, and file folders. But one item was unexpected. Clipped to a file folder was a rolled-up canvas. She unrolled it to discover a painting. As she studied the painting, she was overcome by a sense of wonder and curiosity.
She opened the file folder, pinned on the left side braids were a few handwritten notes and some bank account records. On the top of the right side was a statement showing his time and fee due in the amount of $700, and written across the statement in large scrawling handwriting, which Samantha recognized as his, “Paid in Full.” In smaller writing, he added the date and his initials. The date startled her, and she went cold. Trembling, she lifted the statement and found contact information: Ruth Cox Art and Craft Supply with an address, email, and phone number. She sat the file down and stared pensively into space for a time.
Ruth met Mr. Wright under the most unfortunate of circumstances, which as he playfully said was the only way he met anyone. Even then, she laughed a little at his retort. But Ruth’s life had been upended. As a lifelong artist, she had finally quit her work cleaning houses to focus exclusively on her art and her business. She opened an art and craft supply shop.
While her art was coming along slowly, the shop took off quickly. Soon she had a solid following of customers who frequented her store and bought supplies. For the first time in her life she felt a sense of security and independence. She was supporting herself and doing what she loved—until she was blindsided by an email.
The email was unusual but not suspiciously so, at least not to her at the time. She regularly received emails from her suppliers about special deals. This email was a big special opportunity. It was more than she would normally spend on inventory, but the promised discounts made it a “no-brainer” she recalled thinking. And business was booming so she would move the inventory quickly, she thought. She called her bank and arranged to borrow the funds. She then clicked on the email and entered her bank information as directed on the website. Confidently, she shut down her computer and began to plan for the new inventory—only, it never came.
She tried emailing and calling her supplier, but they had no record of her order. She checked her bank account to see if the money had been withdrawn. It had. And what’s worse, all of her money was gone. She was broke and unable to pay the bank back the loan. She was forced to close the shop and sell what little inventory she had to pay on her debt at the bank.
A friend of hers recommended Mr. Wright, who she hoped would be able to help her recover the lost money and regain her life. He listened patiently, took furious notes, and said he would do his best to find something helpful.
He came back in a couple of weeks to report: the identity of the perpetrator was unknown and not traceable; the loss was excluded as a cyberattack under her business insurance policy; and the bank was not responsible because she had authorized the transaction. He told her he would keep looking but could offer nothing promising.
She looked down at his bag and said, “I hope next time you have something better in that bag.”
He shook his head slowly and muttered, “Me too. Me too.”
He got up to leave and then turned around with an energetic, almost mischievous, smile on his face and said, “I might have something for you in this bag other than law if you are interested?”
Confused but intrigued she said, “Sure.”
He sat back down, opened the bag, and appeared to be rifling through things as he exclaimed, “Here it is” and pulled his hand from the bag as if he were holding a book, only his hand was empty. Then he gestured the flipping of a page and began a story . . .
As a young boy growing up in a small river town, I dreamed of playing baseball. It was our only real pastime in the spring. Oh, how I wanted to play. Tryouts were in February, and I eagerly signed up and did my best.
It wasn’t good enough. I didn’t make the team. My dream was lost. I moped down the streets through town to the river, where I sat on an old log and stared into a landscape of nothingness, just the empty, winter-barren countryside. I began to cry.
But then I noticed something peculiar. Indeed, it was the most unlikeliest of things: a tree, nearly rotten, its roots grasping for anything solid along the river’s edge with a gnarly limb extending out over the river, and proudly standing on that gnarly limb was a goat, head held high, defiantly so, and cascading from its mouth were pink petunias.
He paused, sat back in his chair, and silently acted like he was putting the book back in his bag. When he sat back up, Ruth, half-laughing, asked him, “Mr. Wright, why did you tell me that?”
He responded, “There’s power in knowing the most unlikeliest of things happen, and at the least, I thought it would brighten you up a bit.
As he picked up his bag and walked out of her house, she couldn’t help but smile. Then she started laughing. Somehow the silly image of that goat was stuck in her head. For days, she couldn’t shake it. She started painting—laughing with each stroke.
A few weeks later, Mr. Wright dropped back by as promised. She knew he hadn’t found anything new in her case. He was mostly coming by to close his file. As each time before, he opened his bag and pulled out her file. He calmly went through everything he had done and why in his opinion she had no viable option for recovery. He asked if she had questions.
She said, “No. Thank you for trying.”
He responded he hated he hadn’t been able to find anything helpful, then he closed his file and put it away in his bag. As he was getting up to leave, she stopped him by saying, “Mr. Wright, I don’t have any money to pay my bill right now, and I’m sorry for that.”
He softly responded, “Don’t you worry about that . . .”
And before he could finish, she added, “But I do have would brighten you up a bit.” As he picked up his bag and walked out of her house, she couldn’t help but smile. Then she started laughing. Somehow the silly image of that goat was stuck in her head. For days, she couldn’t shake it. She started painting—laughing with each stroke.
A few weeks later, Mr. Wright dropped back by as promised. She knew he hadn’t found anything new in her case. He was mostly coming by to close his file. As each time before, he opened his bag and pulled out her file. He calmly went through everything he had done and why in his opinion she had no viable option for recovery. He asked if she had questions.
She said, “No. Thank you for trying.”
He responded he hated he hadn’t been able to find anything helpful, then he closed his file and put it away in his bag. As he was getting up to leave, she stopped him by saying, “Mr. Wright, I don’t have any money to pay my bill right now, and I’m sorry for that.”
He softly responded, “Don’t you worry about that . . .”
And before he could finish, she added, “But I do have She handed him a rolled-up canvas. As he unrolled it, a big smile broke out across his face. Then they both laughed. He gave her a hug, then opened his file turning to the statement and wrote across it “Paid in Full” adding the date and his initials.
Ruth didn’t know he died until Samantha called her a year later asking how she knew him and wanting to know about the painting. Ruth invited Samantha to come to her studio that afternoon.
To Samantha’s surprise, Ruth’s studio was chock-full of paintings like the one in her father’s briefcase. Captivated, Samantha twisted around and around soaking in all of the colorful scenes . . . goats prancing in trees, a pig doing a pirouette on a stop sign, a peacock bustling among businessmen on a busy city street, a crystal chandelier hanging above a swamp . . .
Ruth watched as Samantha danced through the paintings and then asked, “What do you think?”
The images were striking, each hitting Samantha abruptly and demanding attention. She noticed the prices next to each painting —$10,000 and up, and nearly all of them had a “sold” sticker on them. She turned to Ruth and exclaimed, “You are brilliant. These works are wonderful! So unexpected!”
Ruth smiled, shook her head, and laughingly said, “Once Mr. Wright put that goat story in my head, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I became fixated on the notion of the most unlikeliest of things. Through these paintings I was able to repay my debt and got my dream back. I owe it all to that silly story.”
Samantha found Ruth as captivating as her paintings. They visited for nearly an hour. As Samantha walked toward the door to leave, she noticed another painting, in a small room off of the gallery, hanging over a desk full of papers. It featured a gnarly limb, much like the one in the goat paintings, except it wasn’t a goat perched on it, rather something else, intimate to Samantha—her father’s bag. Erupting from the mouth of the bag were the most vibrant pink petunias.
Samantha turned to Ruth with a curious smile. Before Samantha could say anything, Ruth declared, “Your father had his tale, I’ve got mine.” TBJ
RODNEY MOORE is an artist,
mediator, and attorney who lives in Little Rock, Arkansas. He is a
partner in Wright Lindsey Jennings and a fellow of the American College
of Trial Lawyers. He spends considerable time pondering the most
unlikeliest of things.
