Chapter Thirteen
Kwame
Restless
“This isn’t what I asked for. If you can’t do the work, stop wasting my time and tell me.”
The object of my anger, a first-year associate who thinks his law degree from Yale is a replacement for hard work, stands before me clutching the offending brief to his chest, his eyes stark with fear.
He has nothing to fear from me. The worst I can do is fire him.
His father, like mine, is powerful and influential, and he’ll never have to go begging for work.
But I’m not sorry to see something other than smug overconfidence on his face and I’m in a bad fucking mood. And his work product is actually shit.
“We charged our clients fifteen hundred dollars an hour for your work product and now we have to eat that because that advice,” I point to the file in his hands, “isn’t worth the paper it’s written on.”
He flushes. “I’m sorry. I underestimated the research and I talked to Rummer and he said—”
“You could have asked God himself and this would still be wrong.” Tobias Rummer hasn’t written a motion in twenty years.
“I’m going to fix it.”
“You have until close of business today,” I warn him.
“I’ll get it done.”
“I hope so. Now, go away.”
“Okay.” He scurries out of my office.
He picked the wrong morning to fuck up. Coming to work at this place, in general, pisses me off. But a sleepless night of bone-deep regret and self-loathing has put me in a positively rancid mood.
I swivel my chair to face the large windows in my new corner office.
The hum of the city beneath me, a symphony of impatient car horns and the wail of police sirens and the sight of thousands of tourists flocking to the National Mall, used to invigorate me when I started this job.
Now, the only time I feel excitement in this office is when I’m leaving at the end of the day.
At almost forty, I’ve achieved what many would consider success.
A decade as an assistant attorney general and now, counsel at one of the best criminal litigation practices in the country.
I’ve got the respect of colleagues, and the clients I’ve taken on have confidence in me already.
Keeping wealthy enough to pay my hourly rate from facing the consequences of their actions is not my idea of justice.
I took this job, moved back to the Washington DC area, and forgave my father for his sins in an attempt to honor my mother’s dying wish. Be the son he doesn’t deserve but needs.
It was a lot to ask but I wouldn’t deny my mother her last wish. And there remains a part of me that hopes my father and I can have the kind of relationship we ought to.
It only took two weeks for him to remind me why we’d never be close.
He only wanted me on the East Coast so I can be his social proxy.
All he talked about was me running for office so I could funnel money to his projects and investments.
He called it the American dream.
I called it a traitorous grift.
He called me disloyal and announced he was leaving for Accra. He was gone three days later.
In the vacuum left by his absence, I’ve had the chance to think about my own life and what my legacy would be if stayed here.
Even in his absence, his shadow in this town is long.
My client roster at the firm has ballooned in a matter of months because of my last name and the power it still holds in this town.
I’m as uncomfortable with it now as I was when I left the family fold to make my own way in the world. How did I end up back here?
It’s the least you owe your mother.
My phone buzzes and I grin when I see the name “TGlo” flash on the screen.
I lean back in my chair, cross my legs, and relax a little. Titus Glover is my oldest friend and former roommate.
He’s always good for perspective on life and women. I answer his video call with a smile on my face only to find myself looking at the ceiling of his office.
“Hey man. What’s up?” I ask and switch my camera off.
“There’s a position at DC AUSA that I think has your name written all over it.”
“What’s in it for you?”
“Well damn.” His face appears in the screen wearing a sad frown. “Can’t I just care about my friend’s career?” he protests.
“I know you, remember?” I lean back in my chair and relax for the first time all day.
“I swear there’s no catch. The process is going to take nine months. You should apply because I know you’d be an asset.”
I’m touched. “Thank you. Sorry I’m such a cynic.”
“Well…you live in DC. It’s kind a survival skill. I can’t believe you moved back.”
I grimace at his words. I can’t believe it either. “When are you coming in for the holiday?”
“A couple days before. Is Lo coming, too?” he asks.
“Not that I know of. Did you invite her?”
“Nah bruh, that’s all you.” He puts on a mock London accent.
“No it’s not. I met someone,” I blurt before I can stop myself.
“Oh shit. Does Paloma know?”
No way. Not yet. “Why would I tell her?”
“She’s not over you.”
I laugh. “You’re way off base.”
“She hasn’t been in a relationship since you guys split. She talks about you all the time. I think she’s still in love with you.”
I laugh in disbelief. “She was never in love with me. Paloma Persaud only loves money, power, and great clothes.”
“Damn. That’s harsh,” he says.
“It’s true. She doesn’t date seriously because she wants to run for office one day. It has nothing to do with me. But if she’s on your mind so much, why don’t you date her?”
“I’m too busy to date anyone. I don’t know if you heard, but my executive protection business found an angel investor and we’re breaking ground on our new building in a few weeks.”
I grin. “I heard. How’s it going?”
“Great. This software is going to revolutionize the personal security industry. Thank you for making it happen.”
“I didn’t do it because I love you. I want my money back,” I joke, and we share a good laugh. “But for real, man. I can’t wait to invest more. You deserve it.”
“I love you man. Thank you. And think about that job. For real.”
When we hang up, I go to the federal jobs website and check out the listing.
I promised my mother a year. I wanted to go back to LA when that time was up.
Or at least I did.
I hang up and blow out a breath to try and dispel the anxious energy building in my gut.
I felt energized when I got home that first Sunday night. It was like a second chance. A clean slate.
My mother had put the deed in her maiden name so when they called me Kwame Dixon, I didn’t correct them.
It didn’t matter what name they called me.
All they knew was Kwame the lawyer, son of their former landlord, and now Sunday lunch guest. It felt so good.
They’ll have to know eventually, but until it’s necessary or comes up, I’m going to enjoy the perks of my anonymity as long as I can.