Irony...

Attorney Robert Gordon “Bobby” Barron rarely sat still. He exhibited an array of personal traits that, at first blush, could easily allow someone to characterize him as an adolescent in an adult’s body. While one could construe his frenetic behavior in a negative light, it also represented the underlying secret to his sudden and unexpected success and fame at thirty-seven. For Jill Thurman, it was hardly first blush time. She observed Bobby’s actions with the trained eye of her profession as she sat in his plush office in a recently constructed high-rise building adjacent to Boston’s bustling South Station. The momentary chaos engulfing him presented a stark contrast to the obvious trappings of success and wealth that seemed to define a more staid existence. “Where’s that file, Marie? I need to get my act together and I’m not getting any help here.” Bobby continued to mutter under his breath as he shuffled through the paperwork and manila folders littering his desk. Marie Phillips, a slender black woman, appeared in the doorway to his office. Bobby’s secretary since he abruptly quit his position as an assistant district attorney in Suffolk County eighteen months earlier; she appeared unaffected by his outburst. She brushed past Bobby and snatched his beige London Fog overcoat from a stainless steel coat rack. Her right hand disappeared into its pocket and she removed a partially rolled-up manila folder. Staring up into her boss’s cobalt-blue eyes, she said, “Bobby, you walked in and I handed this to you. I even reminded you not to forget to pack it for court.” Marie thrust the folder in his direction, causing a wrist-full of assorted jewelry to chime in rhythm with her action. She gave him a look that a mother might cast upon a wayward child. “You looked right through me, as usual, and shoved it in your coat pocket as you walked away.” “What would I do without you?” a blushing Bobby said. He accepted the folder and tossed it in the general direction of the briefcase sitting atop his desk. Grinning at his guest, the redness in his face still evident, he said, “Jill, you’re not going to tell people how screwed-up I really am, are you?” “Who’d ever believe me? You’re Boston’s Golden Boy,” teased the tall and particularly well proportioned Jill. Thick auburn ringlets framed the flawless complexion and striking facial features of the senior staff writer for ABOUT FACE magazine, a Boston-based publication that provided juicy interviews with the latest and greatest beautiful people. Jill winked at Marie. The two had met thirty minutes earlier while waiting for the habitually tardy Bobby. “It would take someone more powerful than me to knock you off your throne,” she teased. Jill had secured the plum assignment through subtle inner-office manipulation. Bobby and Jill were hardly strangers, and she had approached her boss and successfully parlayed a ginned-up version of having briefly dated Bobby during their undergraduate days at nearby Boston College. She was now poised to generate what would amount to little more than the latest puff piece on one of Boston’s hottest cult heroes. Her success subjected her to the inevitable, albeit understandable, envy of several of her female co-workers. She was also not averse to rekindling that old romance, especially now that Bobby was famous, as being seen in his company certainly wouldn’t hurt her career. He had been fun to hang out with in college. She assumed his sudden fame and wealth had done nothing to diminish that aspect of his life. He was also quite easy on the eyes, she thought, admiring his thick black hair; the deep cleft in the center of his taut chin; and the top-notch physical condition he maintained. His stylish gray wool suit, custom-made white-on-white shirt, and flashy purple silk tie complemented his natural attraction. Bobby was combining the recently recovered folder with the rest of his paperwork when the phone rang. Marie turned to him as she headed to the reception area. “Do you want to take this call?” “I don’t have time. Take a message and forward it to me on my BlackBerry. I’ll return it on the way to the courthouse.” Thirty seconds later, Marie reappeared, wide-eyed and visibly upset. “Bobby, you need to take this call.” She turned to Jill and said, “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to step outside.” Jill planned to accompany Bobby to court in an effort to get the requisite feel of him “in action” as background for her story. Marie’s sudden abruptness caught her off guard. Marie, a product of the no nonsense system of legendary Suffolk County District Attorney Richard “Rock” Murray, had only come to work for Bobby after a significant amount of begging, not to mention a healthy pay raise. She was not overly cordial under normal circumstances. The vitriolic phone call she had just taken fortified her belief that this was hardly the time for anyone to question her etiquette, or to expect compassion. “You can sit in the reception area if you wish,” she said, ushering Jill out the door. Marie returned to Bobby’s office, adding to his confusion. “Who is it, Marie? I told you I had to get going,” he said, picking up the phone and placing it over his right ear before she could respond. “Bobby Barron,” he said; the usual air of confidence and panache obvious in his voice. “I know who you are, you piece of shit. I’m going to tell you this once, and you better fucking pay attention, you got me?” “Who is this?” Pausing, he added, “Is this some kind of joke?” “If you think your mother being kidnapped is a joke, then yeah, this is a fucking joke.” Bobby blanched. He dropped into his high-backed black leather chair and spun a quarter-turn. This subconscious effort to regain his composure failed. His knuckles whitened noticeably as he tightened his grip on the receiver. The caller continued, “You framed Tim Dunlap, and unless you figure out a way to straighten it out we’re going to kill your mother now, then you when we get our fucking hands on you. Consider her to be a little insurance for the time being, but you better start thinking about how you’re going to make this good.” Bobby countered, “Listen, pal, I don’t know who you are, or–” The caller cut Bobby off. The conversation would be concise and unilaterally administered. Bobby received a laundry list of commands. “You’re going to receive a phone call within the next two hours with instructions as to what you’re going do to straighten this shit out. Don’t make any calls, and don’t take any calls, until we get back to you. Send your secretary home and do not say anything to her about this conversation. We’re watching her. If she plays any games, she’ll be joining your mother. When we call back, we’ll ring the phone once, hang up, and then call back within ten seconds. Pick it up when it starts ringing again—after the single ring. You got it?” “Yeah, but–” Bobby’s feeble attempt at a response elicited a seemingly louder than usual dial tone. Bobby hung up the phone and lowered his head into his hands. He vigorously rubbed his face, then his temples, before swiveling back to face Marie. “Who was that? What’s going on, Bobby?”