The Emerald Lie

Park’s aunt Sarah had a conference with the lawyer representing him.

You get what you pay for and, in this case, as she was laying out a shitload of green, she had the whiz kid of the city. But smarmy.

Oh, yeah.

Sarah knew to be suspicious of any man who wore more jewelry than she did. And not only that, but classy gear. And he did that annoying thing of shooting his cuffs to emphasize a point and, of course, to show you the Cartier watch, etc.

His office alone cost as much as the salaries of the Irish Water Board. And he was just as arrogant as those charlatans. He said,

“I’ve been in touch with Sergeant Ridge. She is the chief cop on the case and a dyke.”

Sarah wanted to ask,

“And this sexual data helps... how?”

But every question cost another five hundred euros. She nodded sagely. Not easy when you did not wish to draw attention to your double chin. He continued,

“It seems our boy used to give himself ECT.”

She thought,

“What?”

The lawyer smiled and this had the effect of her checking to see if she maybe had something stuck in her teeth. He said,

“If we go the insanity route, this will be a huge advantage.”

Then he suddenly stood up, majestic in the movement, spluttered,

“Good gracious, where are my manners?”

He had the Trinity accent that those who attended in the ’70s acquired. Not quite posh but cultured, showed learning more than breeding. It let you know they were indeed better but not showy with it.

“Coffee, tea, we have Earl Grey and Darjeeling.”

She refused, wanted to get to the bottom line. He continued,

“Our Mr. Wilson administered a voltage of five hundred watts to his brain on frequent occasions. You might say his mind was indeed scrambled.”

Sarah was, dare I say, shocked. She made a small

“Oh.”

The lawyer seemed to think this was appropriate and said,

“Mind you, there is now a bracelet on the market that gives you three hundred forty watts. It comes as a black rubber wristband with an LED light buried inside it; they are calling it a wearable personal trainer. Two copper terminals deliver the current with a simple two-second warning.”

Sarah was aghast, wondering if he was trying to sell one to her. She asked,

“Good heavens, why?”

He chuckled, genuinely amused, said,

“It’s named the Pavlov bracelet after the Russian who conditioned the dogs.”

This she knew about but she was mystified, said,

“I am mystified.”

He elaborated,

“It is designed to stop us yielding to our addictions.”

Sarah was shaking her head. He tried to elucidate.

“Invented by a Stanford whiz kid of the name Maneesh Sethi, it sells at a price of three hundred euros.”

He waited and when she had nothing, said,

“We can use this to show that Park, though obviously off his fucking head...”

She jumped at the obscenity as he intended. He liked to have her full attention. Then,

“Was at least trying to, shall we say, cure himself.”

She was dubious, asked,

“And that would, um, fly?”

He laughed again, a more brutal tone having leaked across his words, said,

“It’s bullshit but at least it shows he is at worst a harmless eccentric.”

Sarah didn’t know if this meant that Park would walk or be confined so she asked,

“What are his chances?”

Lawyers love, just fucking love, questions, and the sillier the better, plus, a long answer stretches out those billable hours, as he’d learned from Boston Legal. He saw himself with the cachet of William Shatner and the chutzpah of James Spader. He’d learned those two c words in the past week and used them frequently. He adopted that lawyerly look, eyes above the pince-nez so you thought you were seeing double. You were certainly paying double, and said,

“If we draw Judge Fahy, we are in with a shout because she is très simpatico to madness. The worst would be Bennett. He let two rapists walk recently and is determined to jail some poor bastard.”

Sarah was still lost, said,

“The press are camped outside my home.”

He shrugged that away — not his problem — said,

“Thing is to try and make our dear Park appear...”

He cleared his throat, noisily, then,

“... Normal.”

She gave a cynical shrug, as in,

“Good frigging luck with that.”

He nearly smiled but went with,

“Couldn’t you get him a copy of Lynne Truss and let him, I don’t know, be seen with that and somehow have the focus on his intellectual side?”

She had no idea of who that person was but this was why God invented Google.

She stood up, said,

“Thank you.”

He stood, too, had to now that he might be a hoot but at least a hoot with manners. For a horrible moment she thought he might actually kiss her hand. He said,

“C’est ne pas rien.”