The grey fog hung heavy between the boats and brownstones in Boston, caressing the dark mood that was with me when I woke up at 5 a.m. I couldn't outpace it, even running hard through the damp Commons.

Like running through deep water, the steep steps to my front door were a narrowing gauntlet. Breathing hard, I picked up the folded newspaper - and Boston faded. I saw his face in the corner picture. I couldn't stop staring at the face I'd never see again. The handsome face that had every woman he wanted with his gregarious grin. The serious face I turned my back to just weeks ago, placing an ideal above friendship. The determined face that relentlessly ran toward danger. The face - one of twenty-five hundred the president took for granted, writing checks that others pay.

His eyes. The newsprint faded and I saw him. I saw everyone, every friend I had yet to meet and never would - and another, another, another. God. Another way.

I knew they weren't inseparable - the appointed command and the men, the political arrogance and the personal drive to help a struggling country and fellow soldiers. This morning, the fissure grew a mile wide.

He had come home. I could still smell his nicotine cloud. Then he left, his one mission stateside in disarray, returning to complete the other. Now he was home again, in my hands, Magnum's charm and Zovko's brass.

I miss peace.



[Cross posted to Theatrical Muse: "Close your eyes and think about what you've been missing in your life lately. It could be a person, pet, place, thing, occasion, feeling. Anything at all that you miss dearly."]

Inspired by the story of Jerry Zovko and "World Wide Suicide" by Pearl Jam, borrowing a few phrases from Eddie Vedder.

>> video

continued from

Zovko took out a pack of cigarettes and offered me one.

"Thank you, no." I poured the rest of the bottled water into my glass and watched the 5 o’clock crowd hustle past our outdoor table at the café next to the firms building.

"Right. Corporate guy. Don’t smoke, drink Pellegrino, golf on Saturdays… "

"No – but we, of course, practice other native vices." Vices 180 degrees from the ones we’d practiced together in '91 in Kuwait City.

"Yeah, let’s hear it for the Department of Morals, Ethics and One Night Stands."
I offered a flat, non-committal grunt. Two outta three.

Magnum cupped a hand over his smoke and lit up. He earned that nickname the night we blew off steam our first Saturday away from the Academy on account of his mustache, his success with the bar waitress and the fact that Magnum P.I. was a former Navy SEAL, something Zovko wouldn’t shut up about.

( How’re you doin’ these days, lieutenant? )

Rest easy, Zovko

continued >>

It could have been the storms that blew in that fall, but I’m pretty sure it was the Presidential elections. It was also Edwin Poole and being yanked back to Boston. Crane, Poole & Schmidt, inexplicably, became the vortex of impudence. Contempt wrapped in a smirk. Mockery. Or, not to put too fine a point on it, Alan Shore.

Sure, I invited it. Mock me if you will, I’d say, but don’t mock our troops. The firm at large took it to heart. I still flinch if someone says lesbian. Do I have a sign taped to my forehead that says ‘mock me’? Yeah, that’s the way it was in 2004.

( I know that's how it started... )

The following week, I was looking into the amazing eyes of a meth addict. I walked away from her so she could get well – and corrected my own course that day. We can all do better. I can do better.

[Cross posted to Theatrical Muse: "Write about a time you mocked somebody."]

"Rebecca, when my 10:30 shows up, just point him to - "

I heard the snicker before I saw the poster. I crossed myself. Twice. Behind the receptionist, high on the wall for every client to see...

"ALAN!"

[Thank you to for alan_shore for creating and gifting this to LJBrad: >> Lumberjack >> Torture]

"He’s going to know I’m not just a BIMBO."

Mercedes Clover was whining again and Brad breathed deeply, centering himself while they waited for the defendent and his counsel in the conference room. It was becoming clear why Ms. Clover's movies lacked dialogue. "He, like, has to respect me. Give me MY money and, yeah, say I'm smart. In front of everybody." Brad pretended to write down her demands.

"Look. I think the best thing we can hope for is a financial settlement. The show's already aired on cable. They can't very well go back and add you as creator and executive producer - " She actually stamped her foot, her spiked heel foot, her enormous chest heaving. Brad cringed at the very idea of having a porn star for a client and started to get up to close the door. Denny was standing in it, mesmerized. "Denny. C'mon. Please?" Brad scooted him out and turned back to see Ms. Clover stand up and start adjusting her silver miniskirt when he heard the elevator.

"Okay. Here we go. Remember what I said. Don't talk. Let me do all the talking." Brad was curious to meet the legendary television producer. According to Mercedes, um - Ms. Clover - he had used her idea for an action series based on her life as a porn star and it had become a hit. She'd been uncermoniously ushered out of his mansion and his life and she wanted revenge. Brad hoped opposing counsel was fair-minded but he was prepared to be tough on him.

He set his jaw and turned to face the adversaries. First, the producer. Brad shook his hand, nodding, and gestured to a chair. He turned back to acknowlege counsel -

His heart nearly stopped. "Jamie?" What the - ?"

"Your 3:30 is waiting in the conference room." Brad emptied the mini bottle into his coffee and tossed the way too small glass into the recycling bin.

"Very good." Brad nodded at the receptionist, removed the small paperback from the file folder marked Duces Tecum and walked out of his office, making a left and putting half the firms associates between him and the conference room.

Out on the balcony overlooking the Commons, Brad relaxed as the crisp February air cleared out the residual chaos of the last few hours. He banked on Ginsberg not waiting. Frank's email blustered about repercussions for the grafitti'd disparagement left on the ADA's wall sometime overnight - something about the shape of a daschund and his sister. Quintessential Shore.

The situation with the security guard in the lobby had occupied his first hour. Ms. Piper hadn't cared for Lenny's gruff assessment of the selection on her breakfast cart, so she felt the only proper retaliation was to call in a bomb threat to him. It was fortunate she used Garrett's phone. The ensuing negotiation hadn't cost the firm more than an all-inclusive Club Med trip for two.

( ...Keep your fucking Denny damn fucking Crane out of here )

Brad grinned as he returned the book to his pocket and made his way back to Frank and the conference room.

[Cross posted to Theatrical Muse: "It was one of those days..."]

cont'd

"Kingdom Hospital?"

"Brad. Don't ask me to repeat it. It was just - " Kevin Drummond fished around in his FBI brain for the plausible denial. " - just something I got from some tv show. That I never shared."

"Got it. Will state lines mean anything?"

"I would never suggest that. Understand?"

"Okay." Brad had hung up ten minutes ago, now standing in the firms parking garage dialing Kara's number too many times. No answer. He tossed his briefcase into the tiny space behind the bucket seats of his Spitfire.

Maine's going to be a bitch this time of year, he thought, then jumped when he suddenly heard that sanctimonious snort from just behind his left ear.

"God, Alan." He knew Alan would have something to say about this mission, so he tried to deflect. "Are you tailing me?"

"It's not pretty, but it's our legal system. And it works. It's like sausage: no one wants to see it made, and it will eventually destroy your heart, not to mention the sudden weight gain. Put some pants on, America. The Truth is knocking at the door."

Brad clicked the remote for his office flat screen, deleting the bear-hating journalist. It was midnight. Crane and Schmidt had long since gone home. Poole, he could only guess, was somewhere blissfully happy and pantsless.

( A decision had to be made )

It didn't matter.

... but it did.

[Cross posted to Theatrical Muse: "What is the greatest sacrifice you've made for love?"]

"On the house."

"Why's that?" All other mornings, the barista made a point to eye his tip cup when handing Brad his change.

"In fact – "He pointed a finger to Brad's lapel as he switched to announcer mode, addressing his caffeine groupies in the small shop in the lobby of the firms building. " – you're not paying for another cup of coffee this year." A promotional smile tried to overshadow the fact there were only seven days remaining in his offer. "That kid you rescued. You're Charles Bronson, man. You're a hero. Hero's never pay. That'd be bad karma."

"Great. Thanks." Brad dropped the bills in the cup, unfazed, walked across the lobby and boarded the elevator.

Miss Hughes jumped in at the last minute, brushing at a significant wet spot on her coat. "I mean, this is ridiculous. Did he not see me on the corner? No, just go ahead and drive that stupid Mercedes through that huge puddle. Hello? Look at me!" Brad pursed his lips and looked at her coat. Silently.

"What? You think this is funny?"
"Nope. What d'ya want me to say?" She looked at him incredulously. Brad shrugged, matter-of-factly. "We live in Boston. It rains." He waited for her to get off the elevator first, then headed to his office, hearing Melissa sighing to no one in particular, “That man was busy writing mission statements when they were handing out the reaction gene."
( Next item of business )

3:27 a.m.

It felt like 90 degrees in the dark Boston brownstone, but Brad could hear the frigid wind shaking the window. It was the sound of Tito's fists banging the backseat window. It was the sound of Billy, thirty years ago, pounding the inside door of the shelter deep in the Rock Creek Park woods.

Brad opened the window, letting the icy pain punish him as it should have every day since Billy, then pumped out fifty push-ups on the hardwood floor.

The Perez case hadn't left him. It hunkered down in his gut for the winter and, like all nightmares grounded in ones own personal suppressed history, invited Billy to stay. I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. I will fear no evil... came at number thirty-one. Maintain a constant state of suspicious alertness... - the overheard voice of the Rock Creek police lodged in the ten-year-olds head and guided everything he did from then on, through the Marines, his short-lived PI days and as a legal advocate for the troubled. You have been taught your entire lives, "Thou Shalt Not Kill". Well, fuck that shit. The voice of his C.O., still in his face, made him stop at number fifty and stalk over to his laptop like he was going to fry every circuit, slowly and with pleasure.

Instead, he flipped it open, launched his email and attempted to save a young boy from decades of torment.
___________________________________________________
From: Bradley Chase | Crane, Poole & Schmidt
Sent: Saturday, November 26, 2005 3:34 AM
To: Sport (nobody@nowhere.com)
Subject: righteous hammer of God

Son,
It's simple situational ethics.
When the man reaches that moment, when his focus is on his own sicko perv deviancy, reach for that walking stick and run him through. Pick up Billy and never look back.

Help Billy. Save him. Don't leave him behind. Don't run out that door, leaving him to the man. Put Billy first.

Always faithful. Protect. Refuse to fail -
___________________________________________________

The lump in his throat threatened to push him where he had steadfastly refused to let his emotions ever go. He worked through it, clicked 'send', delivering his message back to the past, to his ten-year-old self. The challenge would go unheeded, returning to him.

Permanent failure. Error: Sport unknown.

That indictment joined Tito and Billy in his gut as Brad pulled on his black stocking cap and track clothes and began his run to the docks, still trying to outrun himself

[Cross posted to theatrical_muse: "Write a letter to yourself as a child"]

Brad did not like deception. When the receptionist put the call through, she had assuredly said it was the Massachusetts Law Review following up on his submitted article on The Disappearing Civil Jury Trial. Alarmingly, the ruse yielded quite a different article. Was it too much to just expect people to be straight with you?

After a strong cross with the Massachusetts Law Review editor, Brad determined the firms receptionist had punked him. The Review, to his chagrin, had seen his profile in People and would print his take on civil juries if he agreed to a few additional questions. Brad's hope was this publication would counter the unprofessional publicity.

The following week, the receptionist brought him his Massachusetts Law Review issue - along with the mornings twenty-three 'while you were out's' from women asking to talk to People Magazines Sexiest Lawyer of 2005.

He turned to page nineteen - and groaned. Maybe he should take Denny up on a meeting with his publicist. Brad could probably use a few pointers on directing the conversation.

---

One Minute with...
Bradley Chase, J.D.
Junior Partner
Crane, Poole & Schmidt
Boston

Massachusetts Law Review: Do you consider yourself to be a people person?
Chase: Without question. Whatever your politics, we all bleed red, white and blue. People first.

Massachusetts Law Review: What do you dislike about your position as an attorney?
Chase: De-hiring. While unpleasant, the task falls on the ranking authority to follow good business practice - not to mention good business ethics – to disintermediate by cutting out any entity that does not value-add to Crane, Poole & Schmidt. Take, for example, Shore…

Massachusetts Law Review: If you hadn't become successful in the field of law, what other calling could you see yourself in?
Chase: I may still make the transition, depending on my partner track. Our firm accounts would benefit by increasing the number of non-equity partners, replacing us with contract lawyers. If I saw that coming, I would take a position at a military academy, instilling honor and values to a new generation. That – or something covert.

Massachusetts Law Review: Do you have any pet peeves or irritations that might be considered unusual?
Chase: My memos made into paper airplanes; my depositions turned into Dr. Seuss rhymes; escort agencies on my corporate credit card; my law journals being replaced by issues of The Advocate, Ecologist and High Times; the irrational drive among my collegues to wear absurd costumes. *glances at watch* I have more if you have time.

Massachusetts Law Review: Name one thing you want people to know about you, which they might not know.
Chase: I'm not constructed of plastic parts. I'm not GI Joe. * instantly regrets it * I've said enough.

( ooc )

| Wish You Were Here | Catherine Wheel |

"The U.S. military war machine over there've now killed more Iraqi women and children than Saddam." The shrill voice from the TV above Pete's bar was punditing to a room of tipsy tenants from the Boston legal community. I was back serving time at the 21st Amendment after a summer of sobriety. When the clock turned back, so did my resolve. Pete's Perilous Punch made Boston winters manageable.

"Damn liberal with a pen and a network deal." Pete sensed it was not a night to have a friendly debate. He'd poured enough to know something was up. I hadn't said two words all night. He deep-sixed the talking head, sat down on the stool next to me and put a hand on my hunched shoulder.


( What's up, Chase? )

from here

Judge Harding's canceled golf game was the monkey wrench in my date with Jamie and the universe. By noon, the Boston skies opened up, dumping three inches by the time his clerk called and said the judges calendar opened up and he could take our arbitration case if I could get my client to his court within the hour.

The sun was thinking about setting when I offered a silent prayer, hearing the bells peeling at the Old North Church, signaling the time decent judges gaveled for the night. God must like Jamie because he released us to mediate another day.

( Rum - in the side pocket )

| Wango Tango | Nugent |

The court reporter swallowed hard and continued reading back the deposition:
"It's my motivation to avoid the nauseation, frustration."

She stopped, glancing pleadingly at me. Without expression, I nodded for her to continue
"When I need some lubrication - " She adjusted her position.
"You got to pretend your face is a Maserati."

( Objection. Irrelevant. )

| "Alan, I'm told you like sicko, perverse, sexual deviants" | I Can't Get Behind That | Shatner |

*Brad's message on his office phone*
"Brad Chase, Crane, Poole & Schmidt. I'm away from the firm until Wednesday, September 14. For urgent matters, I can be reached in Los Angeles, working on a case for Les Moonves. For God's sake, if at all possible, wait until I return rather than let the associate with the red tie handle your case. I will be checking messages, so feel free to lea- " *beep*

Damn.

[Note scotch taped to this journal: Brad's taking a few days off while his handler works at the most amazing job ever at a rival network. Comments are welcome but response time may vary]

| Tommy The Cat | Primus |

At 6 a.m., the boat traffic on the docks of the St. Charles was minimal. Fog crept between the pilings and around the pier like a gray cat. Brad kept his pace even. He'd covered the mile from his brownstone to the US Coast Guard wharf in six minutes. This morning, as he waved to the guys, they waved him in. He ended up helping two lieutenants hoist an anchor into position to be cranked up.

Continuing his circuit around Commercial, following the water, he made a left and veered back up into the city, through the Commons. Coming up the street to his brownstone, he ran up behind Mrs. Cooper struggling under a hefty load of bags. He carried her haul from the mornings farmers market to her door, returning his elderly neighbor's grin.

Brad felt alive, full of mental energy and ready for a day of advocating for his clients interests as he strode in to the firm. Shirley poked her head into his office. "Brad, the clerks aren't here yet and I've got nine boxes of court papers to get from reception to my office." Happy to oblige

( Remember when I kicked your ass at push-ups, soldier? )

( The first time I saw Alan Shore... I didn't see the attraction. )

| Dirty Water | Dropkick Murphys |

"I gotta run. I've got that dinner thing." I set down my beer and stood, ready to leave the conference room Lori called home while lending a hand down here in D.C. on the antiwar demonstrators appeal.

"Sit, Brad." It was a command. "You're not going anywhere - except to Boston. Tomorrow." She glared, daring me to try skirting the issue one more time

Not letting her win - easily, that is - I deadpanned. "There's nothing wrong with a lecture when it's called for."

"Bite me, Brad. You're one to talk. You talk a good game, tell everyone where they're failing, think it's your God-given calling to fix all the attorney's in the office. But no one can suggest you need to bend. Oh, no. Brad's infallible. Brad's the ethics judge and jury. I'll tell you what you are, Brad - "

"Now, hang on, buddy - "

"You're inflexible, you're stubborn, you're single-minded. And if you can't make everyone line up just the way you want them, you run. What are you doing down in D.C., Brad? I'll tell you what. You're hiding. You met your match with Al - "

"If you're about to go where I think you're going - "

"Every time I tried to bring it up this week, you dodged it with your freakin' bets here and your ad hoc pronouncements on moralistic integrity and what's good and decent in America there."

She took a breath and a long sip from her bottle, then leveled a stare at me. "We need you back in Boston more than in D.C., Brad."

And there we were, full circle, nearly one year later. She was easier on the eyes than Paul. "Seeing as you can't pull rank on me - " I settled back in the couch, contradicting my words " - why should I stay and listen to you?"

| Everybody Hurts | REM |

“Hey. It’s Brad.”

I sighed. Too late to hang up. It felt wrong to call her, but it was necessary. Why’d I have to draw that damn case.

“Can I come over? Yeah, now’d be good.”

On the way to her place, I tried the usual trick: the obnoxious rap was ghetto loud, but it cleared my head
( Come in, Brad )

"He told Denny your Hail Mary pass saved his ass."
"Sounds like the beginning of a dirty limerick." I smirked at Shirley. She clinked my beer with her wine and we both let the alcohol soften the ragged edges of an afternoon spent in a Crane, Poole & Schmidt International meeting.
"I'm sure one followed, but you should feel proud. Alan's never been known to praise you."
"Not my thing. Pride's at the bottom of all great mistakes."
"Headed back to D.C.?"
"Early shuttle."
"You're missed here, Brad."
"Right. And the Bruins will be skating in the Fleet Center this season." My sarcasm was spurred on by my Sam Adams buzz.

Schmidt laid her hand on mine and the sentiment was appreciated. "It was for the client, not him, Shirley. It's just what I do."

( Kuwait, 1991: time, talk and tear gas )

"What would happen if we, as a nation, yielded to a certain current mentality that considers these people as almost useless when they are reduced in their capacities due to the difficulties of disabilities, age or sickness? Do we live in a world in which we think the disabled are disposable? There are no disposable people."

Denny stood up from the defense table, adding: "Denny Crane."
( on trust )

The Marines discipline the fear out of the plebes. In the drills, an errant emotion may bleed through, but no one would ever know. Not even the plebe himself. The subconscious would wrap a camouflage cloak over it.

"Fear is existential. I don't like dark, depressing thoughts about alienation and nothingness. I watch cable news."

Crane was always one to throw down the gauntlet. Sometimes he was simply littering. This one - this was etched. Fear is existential. We are responsible for what we allow ourselves to be. My footnote is fear is a hallucination.

Crane used it on all the new Marines. I was there, his handpicked son, his ears, eyes and support. "Yes, sir. Existential, sir!", every man in the Long Gray Line would chorus. Sometimes the TAC NCO's lips would move slightly in a silent 'Denny Crane'.

"Don't knock existentialism, soldier. It's hard enough for Satre to break the New York Times Bestseller list these days."

That man should have his own tv show. Now that could scare me.

[Cross posted to Theatrical Muse: "What is the scariest thing that’s ever happened to you?"]

Paul gave me the case. Said I was in a unique position to help the client. Actually, he used the word tolerate. As I walked out of his office with the case files, he said, "Brad, they try to wear you down because you see them for what they are. Nearly no one else does." I nod, considering why he said they. It was one client.

I close my door, clear my head and begin reading the file.

Cinically, he was deemed to be an antisocial oral aggressive, care of Sigmund Freud's theory.
( Thinking Errors )

cross posted at Theatrical Muse

Yesterday.
Just beautiful.

"You should be talking to my clerk. I don't make a habit of speaking ex parte with counsel." Judge Resnick was fierce.

“Your Honor, respectfully, without an immediate rehearing, my client stands to suffer irreparable injury.” An advocate. Merits. People first.

“Goodbye, Mr. Chase.”
( reeling her in )

The upside to shutting yourself in your office, preparing for trial, is you're less involved in the firm dynamics. Listening more, interacting less. Recently overheard --

Donny Crane's back - apparently he has an ear for accents; "We'll go to fifty-thousand dolluhz."

Denny has a new tag line when he enters the room: "Buckle Up."

Schmidt seems to have a thing for Alan: "I need you to be my whore."

Normal is a rarity in this legal practice. I'm pondering D.C. again. Right about now, the cherry tree buds are expanding around the Jefferson Memorial.

All I know is he instigated a brawl. He isn't a physical man. Strictly bush league when it comes to fists. He's just a guy that's perhaps too smart for his own good - or, as litigators call it, a guy charged with conspiracy to commit aggravated assault.
( 'Talking about me, Brad?' )

| Shattered | Stones |
It would be a quick in and out job. Drive down to New York, slip in to her beach house, avoid her ex and retrieve her ring and jewelry. Doing a good turn for Carolina while she's in the hospital recovering from her self-inflicted gunshot wound.

I look over at Victoria, packing a change of clothes and her hopes for seeing Conan. Humming. Drama was for other couples. As if on cue, she looked up and made a face. Yeah, we'll take romantic comedy for $1,000.

| Boston Legal Theme Music |

I close my office door and lean back in my chair. Yesterday, it was a gift subscription to The Advocate. A few moments ago, Alan handed me "The L Word" DVD. Is there something taped to my head that says, “Mock me”?

Lori laughs at the thought Tracy might be attracted to me. First of all, why is that so unbelievable? Then there was the Staff Meeting. Later, Alan and Denny led a chorus of "Lesbian!" Catherine Piper got in a dig. Twice, Tara informed me I was making a fool of myself. Even Tracy took every opportunity to ask, incredulously, 'You actually think that I’m attracted to you?' She used my suspicion in an effort to not be found out and throw me off track, directing it toward this supposed "attraction" toward her.

Its not about ego or if I like her. Its about deceit and truth. I just believe you should be straight with people. I’m a good lawyer because I've got a nose for the truth. I knew I was being deceived, I just wasn’t sure how.

My colleagues sucker me with this buddy talk, then they punish me with it. Damn it. I won't be sued by my client for sexual harassment, I wasn't infatuated with her. I wasn't falling in love with this woman. I wasn't hitting on her. Please. I have Victoria. Call me a cynic. I just don’t like surprises in court.

But I took it. And, in the end, only three people will ever know the truth: Tracy Green, Stephanie Rogers and myself. I'd rather bear their impression that I'm a fool, which I shrug off, than to embarrass my client. It's a character thing.

Ethics didn't survive the basketbrawl between the Pistons, the Pacers and the fans. Bring on the lawyers. We filed criminal actions against five fans and four players. Shore turned it into a trade for a married woman. Your behavior's despicable, Alan. Get the fee.

Superhero's were in short supply in Boston. Hero status for both the Red Sox and Kerry were waning. Such was the conversation in the conference room before Crane and Schmidt showed up. Alan disagreed, saying superhero's could be conjured up as the need arose. I, by default, disagreed with him. Victoria asked the boys to hash out our respective hypothesis at her clients virtual reality studio. At 1800 hours, Operation Superhero commenced, protagonist and antagonist each outfitting themselves in costumes that befit their inner superhero skills. The battlefield: Barcalounger, goggles and our minds; Weapons: Words; Winner: Victoria would name the superhero the distressed masses could rely on.