A Package
Thursday morning was late with high humidity. The sun poured its light and warmth down on the world below, cooking the pavement. Honeysuckles were so potent I could almost taste them. Their scent was as loud as the brightness of their pedals. The sensation of a breeze glided along my skin and allowed my lungs to consume the sweet air.
I admired the small garden that my neighbor had been taming for a few months. I’d lived there for almost two years and had never spoken to him. He was a short and burly man who was bald on the top of his head. It was that strange type of baldness, the kind where he still had bangs and attempted to combover the hair from the back of his skull forward. In spite of his peculiar looks, he did have a green thumb. With all things considered, he resembled a leprechaun.
Next door, between the houses, I gazed at his garden and saw what I believed to be tomato plants,mounds for potatoes, and marigolds around the edges of the garden to ward off insects and critters. The other greens were a mystery to me but I would surely be more accurate in identifying them as the plants reached maturity. He always did a nice job of tending to his garden.
Summer in Bourbon County, Kentucky was hot. The flowers sang and danced in the morning breeze. It was half past ten as I stood on the stoop of the door between my house and carport. I lit a cigarette.Still in my pajamas, I waited on the coffee pot to finish. I was a night owl with a daytime career. Oh, and did I forget to introduce myself? I’m Patricia O’Neill, but everybody calls me Trish.
As I stood in the carport, I recalled the previous evening. I had received a text message from an unknown number. The text read, “a package labeled ‘JPM’ will be placed in your garage later tonight. Lock it away safely.” A reasonable person would be concerned after receiving a text message from a stranger revealing that they knew where they lived. However, I was almost certain I knew who the text message came from: James Paul Milligan. He was a client of mine and a co-owner of six art galleries in and around the Lexington area.
The text must have been sent from a burner phone. I was used to some of my clients texting from random numbers, usually because they were into drugs and either couldn’t keep up with a phone billor they wanted to leave no trace. They always said the same thing: “hey, this is [insert name], this ismy new number.” Most of the time their texts weren’t spelled correctly. Another reason why I believed this was from Milligan. He knew how to spell.
I took a drag off the cigarette and strolled through my carport towards the garage. I never locked my garage. Nothing of real value was kept in it. The garage was largely cluttered with various furniture, my paint supplies, and locked filing cabinets containing inactive case files. I spotted the package with “JPM” written in sharpie. The box was about the size of a small laundry basket and sat on the tarp next to my easel and unfinished canvas. I enjoyed painting in my spare time. Painting calmed me and took me away from my work long enough to reset my mind.
I didn’t reach down immediately. I stared at the package that had made its way onto my property. I nudged it with my big toe. A metallic object wrestled within the box. The package was tightly taped multiple times with that thick post office tape. I reached down to lift the package and grunted. It must have weighed twenty to twenty-five pounds. I needed to work on my cardio. I squatted and gripped the box with my arms then lifted us both with my legs. Yes, my cardio needed work, I thought as I smokedthe cigarette that dangled out of the side of my mouth.
“Why is he dumping this here? Thinks he can just show up and meddle in my property,” I grumbled.Why didn’t he just call me for a meeting? Ninety-nine percent of my clients didn’t know where I lived and the remaining one percent knew not to just stop by. I rarely had company. I virtually had no family left with the exception of my brother, Charles O’Neill, who was an inmate at the Georgia State Prison.
***
I ran my practice out of my home. Brick and mortar wasn’t necessary to run a law practice, not since the advent of the internet. I usually met clients at the Bourbon County Courthouse anytime I neededto speak with them face-to-face. On slower days at the courthouse, the conference rooms were rarely if ever occupied. There were tax benefits to working out of home and I wouldn’t get my money’s worth renting another building. I told myself all of these things to remain confident in my arrangement. Honestly, I did not work well with others in closed spaces, not on an everyday basis anyway. Once I was settled into a job and learned the routine, the anxiety would start around the three month mark. Then, six months later, the anxiety would become full blown paranoia. After a year of employment anywhere, I would resign. As much as I hate to admit it now, and refused to acknowledge it then, I was a hermit who had quite a bit of social anxiety.
In my mind, I was capable of running a more efficient and fruitful firm on my own. It was possible; however, self-medicating with alcohol stunted such prospects of high success. Despite this, my life wascomfortable enough to meet all of my needs and have extra money after bills. I wasn’t always an alcoholic but it developed into a real habit once I started law school. The habit never wore off. I was good at drinking in large quantities. The problem with that skill was that I never knew when to stop.Nothing comes easier to an attorney than drinking. Alcohol is a legal drug that can be purchased damn near anywhere. It has always been the profession’s drug of choice.
I entered my home and walked through the kitchen towards the dining room, which was my shabby little law office. It was a modest home. Three bedrooms, two baths, a car port, garage and fenced-in backyard. A record player, that I rarely used but still admired, rested on top of a shorter book case. I received most of my furniture from my grandparents’ estate upon their passing about fourteen years ago. Though it was out of date, they really did have lovely taste in furniture. Since their passing, thefurniture racked up a lot of mileage. In the living room, springs protruded through the bottom of the dual reclining couch and glider. They didn’t match. The glider had maroon cushions and a light stain in the crotch from the time I spilled coffee. The couch was tan and had only one working recliner. I didn’t have the heart to throw it out. I thought of my family every time I looked at it. There was also the hope chest that my grandfather built me as a high school graduation gift. I used the chest as a coffee table.
Hanging on the walls were some of my abstract paintings. I didn’t have photos and the paintings ate up the blank space throughout the home. I didn’t put them up because I particularly fancied them. They added color to the barren off-white walls that I hadn’t yet committed to painting. I hated homes that were uncomfortably perfect, homes that were anything but inviting. Homes with light colors, stiff couches, family portraits, planned furniture arrangements, and those ugly southern-styled barn-wood do-it-yourself nooks that a proper house wife just had to tout. I was neither a housewife nor proper.
Most of my tables and kitchen chairs were made of cherry wood. With the right momentum, the chair legs would squeak and scrap against the hardwood floors. My curtains and area rugs were dark red. I liked the inside of my home dark. It was inspiring to do work and it also invited sleep when I was able to shut off my brain.
This was my castle and hideaway from the world. I had several book cases throughout the house of various shapes, sizes and of different forms and shades of wood. I had quite an eclectic taste in reading material. Graphic novels, dystopian novels, books about art, fantasy novels, and others. One of the larger book shelves only held my statute and law books. There were no irritating florescent lights, no secretary, and no staff. It was just me. That’s how I liked it.
***
Upon entering the dining room, I moved towards the pantry door that was now a supply closet. On the floor of the closet was a safe the size of a mini-fridge. The box was much too large for the safe. I stowedit in the closet and locked the door. I’d learn of the contents of the package eventually. There were other items that required my immediate attention.
I sat at my desk and skimmed my calendar for the day. More of the same: return phone calls, court at two o’clock, a few documents to draft and file. I enjoyed my work for the most part but it gotexhausting and mentally taxing at times. Despite acknowledging that my clients got themselves into their own legal situations, it was my responsibility to get them out. Anytime I didn’t manage to fix the mess they made, I bore that guilt. I practiced criminal and family law. I was privately retained in some of my cases and others were court appointed. Despite the emotional and mental qualms that came with the cases, they paid the bills.
