Country Roads(36)

Paul forced a chuckle. “I guess it’s vegan night.” He speared a baked potato and dropped it on his plate.

“Just trying to keep you healthy,” Jimmy said, serving himself a potato. He sliced it in half and shook a liberal dose of salt over it. “So I hear you had a meeting with some bigwig from New York about your pro bono legal project.”

The flaky potato turned to ashes in Paul’s mouth. He put down his fork and leaned back in the chair. “We discussed how to put together funding from various sources.”

“Did he think you could get all the money you need to start it?”

“He’s sure of it. The big law firms are already on board. And there are a couple of foundations looking to support an initiative like this.” He sounded like an infomercial, but he couldn’t make himself speak casually about this.

His pro bono work had kept him sane. A few months after he returned to Sanctuary, he was so tired of wills, real estate closings, and divorces, he called up a classmate who worked at a large corporate firm in Richmond and offered to do research for pro bono cases at a reduced rate. He knew the big firms often struggled to donate the hours the American Bar Association recommended, partly for financial reasons and partly because their lawyers didn’t have the right background or experience. His friend had consulted with the firm’s senior partners and come back with an enthusiastic acceptance.

Paul found the work satisfying on both an intellectual and gut level; he believed every accused person was entitled to the best legal representation available, and his research gave the defending lawyers tools they wouldn’t have otherwise. His reputation spread, and soon he couldn’t handle the amount of work offered to him.

So he had come up with the Pro Bono Project, a databank of small-practice lawyers like himself who were willing to do the legwork at reasonable rates. His job as director would be to recruit them, evaluate their qualifications, match them up with the right cases, and monitor the quality of work they were doing, as well as tracking hours and payment.

Now he wouldn’t be doing any of that.

Jimmy cut a tablespoon-size chunk of butter and dropped it on his potato. “It must be a pretty good idea if so many people want to pay for it.”

“Ben thinks so, and he’s the president of the American Bar Association.”

Grabbing his glass, Jimmy took a gulp of iced tea. “That’s for lawyers all over the whole country?”

Paul nodded.

“I thought you were just going to talk about West Virginia.” Jimmy’s hand shook, making the ice rattle in his glass as he set it down.

“I did too, but it seems he wants to roll this out on a national level right from the start.”

“I guess he wants you to work on it.”

“He offered me the job of director.”

“That’s impressive. My big brother, a director.” Jimmy picked up his fork and began to mash the soft butter into his potato. “Where will this project be located?”

“Washington, DC.” He knew he was dragging the conclusion of the conversation out unnecessarily, but he wanted to give Jimmy the benefit of the doubt. He always hoped his brother would surprise him.

For a moment Jimmy lifted his eyes from the potato he was mauling, and Paul saw the fear in them. “You remember the promise you made to my ex,” Jimmy said in a low voice. “You said you wouldn’t leave again so I could be with Eric.”

Taking a deep breath, Paul blew it out toward the ceiling. “I remember, and I’ll keep it because Eric deserves to have you in his life.”

The sear of disappointment when he said the words out loud shocked him. He must have been fooling himself that he might be able to take the job. Jimmy had brought him back to reality.

Shoving his chair back from the table, he picked up his plate. “I’ll help you with the dishes.”



The drive to his house took seven minutes, even though he forced himself to keep the ’Vette at the speed limit. He pulled in the driveway and killed the engine, but he couldn’t get out of the car. A wild restlessness roiled inside him, a rebellion against the ropes of need and guilt his brother tethered him with.

He smacked his hand on the leather-covered steering wheel as he thought of making the phone call to Ben Serra and saying he couldn’t accept the position as director of his own goddamned brainchild. The Pro Bono Project was his; he had developed the concept, put together the plan, and outlined how to fund it.

He brought the big engine back to life and backed out of the driveway with a squeal of tires, pointing the car’s hood toward the interstate, where he could turn it loose. He hoped a cop had his radar gun on because he was in the mood to outrun anyone who gave chase.