The Truant Officer (43 page)
I sit at a picnic table in the general admission paddock area. I’m not far from where my family, the Lawsons, normally sit with the flamboyantly rich in the luxurious box seats at the finish line. The same seats the Lawsons of yesteryear once sat in, arm-in-arm with the Vanderbilts and Rockefellers. But from a social-class point of view, my seat is a galaxy away. I can’t avoid the obvious symbolic separation from my old life.
The Lawson legal dynasty began when Thomas Lawson arrived in Boston Harbor from the mother country in the first half of the eighteenth century, eventually settling in what is now Greenwich, Connecticut. He set up a small law office on nearby Manhattan Island, and after years of chasing the horse and buggy version of ambulances, he grew to be one of the most powerful lawyers in the New World. He was so taken with the law (more precisely, its lucrative rewards) that he decided that all future Lawsons would follow his lead, coining the phrase “Lawsons are lawyers.” To ensure his mission statement would be carried out, he linked each descendant’s inheritance to their joining the family business.
Over the years, the mechanical rabbit the Lawsons chased became narrowly defined. The acquisition of unimaginable wealth was part of it, of course, but my family views true perfection as being
perceived
as perfect by those around them. Or what I like to refer to as the meaningless quest for the approval of others.
The thoroughbreds are led into the starting gate. One feisty colt is having second thoughts and puts up a fight, but eventually gives in—the rebel always seems to lose in the end. As bugles signal the race is about to commence, I spot the oversized white hat of Ashley Cirillo. She strolls through the thick crowd with her usual grin and the grace of an old-time movie star, the haughty Saratoga background fitting her like a Vera Wang dress.
Walking alongside Ashley is her husband, Mac. He is looking frat-boy scruffy, as if he didn’t get the memo that states you aren’t supposed to look and act the same at thirty-two as when you were twenty-two. They are an odder couple than Felix and Oscar ever were, their only noticeable commonality is the “in-love” smile they wear for each other.
“I love the smell of trust funds in the afternoon,” Mac jokes upon reaching me, dramatically sniffing the air for effect.
I smile and grab one of his cheese-glazed nachos.
“So who’d we bet on?” I ask Ashley. I always follow her lead on such matters. Her success often exceeds that of the so-called experts, even though her technique of picking the horse with the “prettiest tail” has yet to become an accepted technique of professional handicappers.
“Mac bet on a three-to-one shot called Old Wino, not exactly going out on a limb,” she begins.
“I couldn’t resist, Jack, it reminded me of your grandmother,” Mac states. He looks proud that he extracted a grin from me. Lately it’s been a challenge.
“The combination of my family and your lifelong losing streak doesn’t exactly scream winner,” I reply, and then get to the all-important bet. “Which one has the pretty tail, Ash?”
“Actually, I’m going away from the plan this time, Jack.”
Before I can question this dramatic change of course, Mac explains, “It’s destiny, Jack—as big of a lock as you in the courtroom. The horse’s name is Clotheshorse!”
For years Mac has playfully referred to Ashley as “the Clotheshorse” in response to her expensive addiction to shopping.
“It’s fifty-to-one, Jack, but I don’t know how it can lose,” Ashley adds with enthusiasm.
We walk to an outside grill that’s situated right next to the track, and is VIP only. I use my Lawson influence to get us in, so we can stand by the rail. It is one thing to watch the race, it’s another to feel the horses thunder past you.
A ringing of bells halts our conversation. The gates burst open and the rumbling of hooves crackles through the thick summer air. Those in the grandstand rise out of their seats. “And they’re off!” shouts the track announcer.
It feels like the earth is shaking as the horses bend around the first turn. “Old Wino shoots to the lead!” belts out the announcer.
Ashley excitedly urges Clotheshorse on, “C’mon baby, mama needs a new pair of shoes!”
“Mama has a whole closet of shoes she has never worn,” Mac reminds her. He is trying to remain confident, but I can tell he’s already sensing another bad ending.
I maintain my cool demeanor that has always served me well in the courtroom, but sometimes gives the perception of aloofness outside of it.
At the halfway point, Clotheshorse, the fifty-to-one shot, has done the unthinkable by overtaking Old Wino. Mac nervously chain-eats his nachos as we watch the horses head down the home stretch, while Ashley cheers on with a knowing grin.
It’s Clotheshorse by a nose...Old Wino makes his move on the rail...Old Wino moves to the lead...Here comes Clotheshorse...It’s too close to call…
That’s when a seven-to-two shot named Bossy Cow makes a move on the outside. She is a dark brown filly with a white stripe down her nose. She passes with ease and cruises to a three-length victory.
Old Wino takes second, giving Mac slight bragging rights over Ashley, who watches Clotheshorse drop to fifth and out of the money. She curses herself for abandoning her system.
“Typical woman,” Mac impugns the victorious filly. “Just when you’re feeling good about things, she sneaks up behind you and ruins all the fun.”
The comment leads to a group laugh
—
a nice moment between friends. One that’s been lacking during the recent stage of my life, which officially is being called a “sabbatical,” while the whisperers behind my back tend to prefer the term “mental breakdown.”
I currently live with Mac and Ashley at their house on Otsego Lake in Cooperstown, a small village ninety miles northeast of Saratoga, and known for being the home of the Baseball Hall of Fame. That is where Mac works as the Assistant Director of Marketing, a step on the path to his dream job, which is to be the curator of the museum.
Ashley followed Mac to Cooperstown after graduation, and the city girl became so bored in rural upstate New York that she began doing errands for everyone she met to keep busy. This attempt at curing boredom developed into a profitable business she aptly named Ashley’s Errands, making her the true breadwinner of the family. Mac often jokes that the errand business is just an excuse for Ashley to go on shopping sprees, even if they are for others.
We all met at Brown University, thirteen years ago. Mac chose Brown because the Ivy League education allowed him to pursue his dreams and escape the blue-collar town of Poughkeepsie. Ashley chose it because Providence was near her Boston home and she considered it a “hip college town.” I went to Brown because my aristocratic mother patterned her life after Jackie Kennedy, and if Brown was good enough for her son John Jr., then it certainly was good enough for Jack Lawson.
Having grown up at the corner of rich and delusional, I rarely interacted with real people. This changed when I met my college roommate, a sophomore named Mac Cirillo. He was nothing like anyone I had ever met before. He was funny, comfortable in his own skin, and wasn’t overly concerned what others thought of him. He is known for being a little “out there” with his offbeat theories that he calls Macademia
—
combining his name with academia, because in his words, he is educating us. I more associate the term with macadamia nuts, which I think might be a better description of Mac. His belief that man never landed on the moon is the one he is most passionate about.
The big favor I did for Mac was introducing him to Ashley Armstrong, a gorgeous leggy blonde with grace, style, and pedigree. In other words, way too good for him. Ashley will be the first to admit she is girly, but if you call her high maintenance you’ll have a fight on your hands. She can fish and talk trash with the boys as effortlessly as she can pick out a pair of designer shoes. Her father owns a private airline company called Armstrong Airlines, and Ashley is an accomplished pilot herself, giving lessons on the weekend. But most importantly, she has always been my biggest source of support—a support I’ve needed the last couple of years.
I consider them to be my real family. So when I took a leave of absence from my family’s firm, Lawson Baird & Gentry, I ultimately migrated here. It’s where Mac returned the favor by reintroducing me to a great love of mine—the law. It’s the one great legacy of my family’s incessant shove in that direction. But I don’t love the “Lawson Law” of money, schmoozing wealthy clients, and making partner. The law I fell for was the one that represents justice, and speaks for those who can’t speak for themselves. Which is what led me to stay in Cooperstown, and take the job as Chief Assistant District Attorney for Otsego County.
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