Sharks

You have to be one of three things to swim in shark-infested waters: oblivious, stupid, or ballsy. The legal system is full of sharks. Some of them are just little fish who hide behind the gleaming teeth and will nip at your ankles like an overstimulated chihuahua. That is {D}, and he has the scar on his ankle to prove it. Then there are your great whites, who circle and decide if you are even worth their time to rip limb from limb. These are the real lawyers with the custom-made suits, because Brooks Brothers is for bureaucrats and other assorted poor people. Unless they are there to destroy you, the great white ain’t gonna get blood on his $6,000 suit.

I find myself swimming with sharks. We have court next week. I have some shit I need to do to prepare, and again I am so fucking tired of being a lawyer. Seriously. Or at least being my lawyer. Because the case sucks and my client… my client is a little nuts.

Well now I’m going to ask for a lot more money.

You know, I was doing it for the right reasons. Justice and all that noble bullshit. But sharks don’t swim for justice — they swim for blood in the water. So maybe the right reason is to make {D} just poor enough that he can retire, he just can’t enjoy it. Call it pre-purgatory before he actually goes to hell, where he will obviously end up eventually if you believe in such things.

I did some math with the help of AI, backing out numbers and taking into account losing part of his IRA in a divorce and the market changes over the years. Sharks circle before they bite, and I’ve been circling his finances the same way. Just slow passes through the water, figuring out where the soft parts are.

I think I have a number now.

I like my number.

Perhaps it should have dawned on me when I talked to a few lawyers who said it was a good case but not worth the hourly I’d have to pay because it’s complicated. Fine, I said. I’ll just do it myself.

They are not going to mandate him to therapy or rehab. I don’t even know if they legally can. But I’m still asking for it regardless. That is the thing that cures everything apparently — rehab. Get the help you so desperately need. Like if I can handle years of trauma therapy over this, you can handle 90 days in rehab and a weekly session with a therapist, you fucking psychopath.

See, the only time {D} ever spoke about being actually happy was in Samoa, and I sometimes wonder if he was sober that year. Something had happened in Florida. Maybe he got sober for a little while. I’ll never know the answer to that. But if it’s true, why not go back to rehab and try again?

Sharks.

I always told {D} his teeth gleam like a cartoon shark. It’s part of the façade. His little-fish energy projecting himself to be a bigger, stronger fish. Just like driving a used E-Class — projecting a car that costs less than my Camry as being prestigious. It’s all about appearance.

What can that teach me about how to win in court?

Fucking sharks.

I want to be a real one.

Actually, fuck that. I want to be an orca, because those motherfuckers kill the great whites for funsies. {D} taught me that.