Chapter 1

I woke up pissed off. The clock by the bed was making its usual racket. It was reading "8:00" on the big display. Under that, it said "June 7". All of this was information in which I had no interest whatsoever. I restrained myself from throwing the goddam thing through the window. Instead, I hit the button to make it shut up. I was still smarting from the final fight with Paddi-Ann, but there was no reason to take it out on the clock. She'd finally pushed the envelope too far. After she'd stormed out with all her shit, I'd had a few drinks too many. My head was a little fuzzy. Well, more than a little. I considered trying to go back to sleep. I abandoned that idea. There was one thing I wanted to do right away. I wanted to make sure that she'd really left -- that I hadn't dreamed the whole thing. I got up and opened the walk-in closet. It was empty. She was gone, along with her clothes and interminable numbers of shoes. Thank God.

I put on my robe and went downstairs. I made some strong coffee and drank three cups one after the other. After the third cup, I was finally awake. I thought about the break up. Was it a good thing? Yes. Definitely. It was overdue. If Paddi-Ann hadn't been such a great fuck, I'd never have put up with so much crap from her. In the end, about all we had in common was good sex. I'd found it hard to believe that we shared a profession. How in hell, I wondered, could Paddi-Ann ever represent a client competently? In any case, that chapter of my life was over.

I looked forward to a quiet Sunday -- the first one in a long time without the idiotic interruptions of Paddi-Ann. I planned to get a little work done in the morning and watch some baseball in the afternoon. But when I opened my briefcase, I found that I'd forgotten some files that I needed. I could either forget about work or go downtown and get the files. I decided on the latter course. I saddled up the Benz and drove to the office cursing under my breath.

When I got there, the place was deserted except for Gus the security guard. He and I exchanged a few pleasantries, sports bullshit and such, while he unlocked the elevator. I went up to the office and quickly got the shit I needed. I said good-bye to Gus and headed home.

I figured that I might as well stop at the little neighborhood store called the Friendly Corner on my way back. I'd pick up my weekend papers, the Times and the Guardian, as well as something for breakfast. I parked on the street and went into the store. When I came out, a group of teenage girls were standing next to my car. The old church across the street had been turned into a Kiwanis Boys and Girls Club. I figured that these kids were either coming from or going to some event there. I put my bags in the trunk.

"Nice car."

I looked up. It was one of the kids. She was short, probably 5' 2" or less. At first glance, I thought that she was a little on the chubby side. But then I realized that impression was probably caused by the fact that her breasts were large for her height. She had blonde hair, cut short, and she had a big smile on her face.

"Thanks," I said, as I closed the trunk.

"It's a Mercedes E500 4Matic, right?"

I smiled back at her. "Yes it is. You know your cars," I said.

"This is a really special car," she said. "It has a big V-8 and all-wheel drive. It's beautiful. And I've seen it before. In fact, I see it all the time. You must live around here."

"Yes," I agreed, "just a couple of blocks away. Over that way." I pointed northwest. How about you?"

"Yeah," she said, "I live a just a few blocks from here. That way" She pointed south.

"Oh," I said. The Friendly Corner was just above Gerrard Street. If she lived a few blocks south, that meant she lived in Regent Park, the subsidized housing development. Most of the people who lived there were either welfare recipients or what's euphemistically termed the "working poor." This part of central Toronto, known as "Cabbagetown," was what they called a "mixed" neighborhood. Gerrard Street was the dividing line. North of Gerrard there were lovely old Victorian and Edwardian homes housing the well-to-do. The poor lived south of Gerrard. It was a strange juxtaposition.

The girl's face clouded over. "Yeah, I'm 'one of those, '" she said, "I'm sorry to have taken your valuable time." She turned to leave.

"Look, I'm sorry," I said, "I didn't mean it like that. Not at all." I held out my hand. "I'm John Charles."

The girl gravely shook my hand. "I'm Stacie. Stacie MacPherson."

"I'm glad to meet you, Stacie," I said, "and I'll bet that you really do know a lot about cars."

She blushed. "Not all that much," she said, "and I can't imagine what it would be like to even ride in a car like this, let alone to own one."

I smiled at her. "How would you like me to drive you home?"

"Really? Would you really do that? I'd really like a ride in your car, but I don't know if I should..."

I said, "Don't worry. I'm not a pervert or a weirdo. I'm a lawyer. Well, maybe some people would figure that just being a lawyer makes me somewhat suspect, but some of us are actually regular guys. What do you say?"

"Sure," she said. She was smiling again.

"OK, hop in. You can put your knapsack in the back seat."

We got into the Benz. I put my hand on the gear lever, clicked it into "drive" and began to pull away.

"Wow," Stacie said, "was the car already running? I didn't even hear it."

"No," I said, "it has the thing that Mercedes calls its 'keyless go' feature. As long as I have this fob," I took it out of my pocket, "all I have to do is to touch the button on the gear selector, and the engine starts. I'm not too sure that I like this feature, but I'm getting used to it." I looked at the dash display. "By the way, it's already after eleven o'clock. I didn't do breakfast. How would you like to go to the Pear Tree for brunch? It should be open by now."

"Gosh, I don't know. That's a pretty expensive restaurant."

"My treat," I said. "How about it?"

"OK." Stacie beamed at me.

I was lucky. There was a parking space right in front of the Pear Tree. I opened the door to the restaurant and held it while Stacie went in. Omar, the owner, was at the reservation desk. "Ah, Mr. Charles," he said, looking at his book, "I don't see a reservation for you. Did you call?"

"No Omar, I didn't. But please, could you find us a nice table for two? In the solarium, if possible."

Omar showed us to a very nice table. We were by the window looking out on the patio. We'd have the advantages of the early summer sun without being bothered by the bugs and the smokers outside.

We sat down, I opened my menu absentmindedly. I pretty well had the thing memorized. While pretending to read it, I watched Stacie. She read the menu with wide eyes and then looked around, equally wide-eyed. She was a pretty girl. Simply so. She was most unlike the other Regent Park girls I'd seen. She was neither unkempt nor overdone, the two extremes common in the Park. She had the well-scrubbed "girl next door" sort of prettiness. No wonder I'd been so surprised when she told me where she lived.

Actually, Stacie reminded me of someone. The more I looked at her the more I notice the resemblance to... whom? Then the penny dropped. Stacie looked a hell of a lot like Doris Bowman. At least she looked like the Doris of twenty years ago.

Doris got my cherry. Actually, we had a mutual loss of virginity. She was a preacher's daughter. Her dad was the minister of the United Church of which my parents were members. Doris and I started hanging out together when she was fourteen and I was fifteen. For the next two years, we got together as often as we could. Her parents were quite strict, especially her mother. There was a hard and fast rule: no dating until Doris was sixteen. So we had to get together during the daytime. On Saturdays, I would meet her at the movie theatre. We'd always go to the least popular film. We'd sit in the back row of the balcony and make out in the nearly-empty theatre.

We started out by holding hands. We soon progressed to kissing and some minor petting. I remember the day that I took the bold move of placing her hand on my cock. She immediately got the idea and started squeezing it and feeling its contours. Outside my pants, of course. She reciprocated by placing my hand under her skirt. I quickly put my hand on her pussy. The crotch of her panties was wet, which surprised me. I thought perhaps she'd peed herself. As a result of Doris' playing with my cock through the entire movie, I went home that afternoon with a nearly terminal case of the blue balls. I called my friend Arnie, my advisor on all things sexual. Arnie advised me to jerk off immediately. "It's the only cure," he said. It seemed to work.

The day of Doris' sixteenth birthday finally arrived. The next evening was our first real date. I picked her up in my dad's Oldsmobile. I was seventeen and had been driving for a year. Her dad laid down the rules: no drive-in movies (they still existed then) and she had to be home by eleven. As I pulled out of her driveway, I asked Doris what movie she wanted to see. She said, "Why don't we just find someplace quiet instead?"

I knew just the place. It was a parking lot down by Lake Ontario that was notorious as a teenage passion pit. I found an isolated spot. As we kissed, Doris immediately reach for my dick. I asked her, "Why don't you take it out?" She didn't need to be asked twice. Soon she had my pants down. I, in turn, suggested that she remove her panties. She quickly took them off and put them in her purse.

We played with each other for a while, then I thought it was time to put Arnie's advice to the test. He'd told me, "Forget doing it on the back seat. The best way to fuck in a car is with the broad on your lap. Get her to straddle you." I suggested to Doris that I move to the centre of the front seat and that she sit facing me with one leg on either side. She didn't immediately understand the implications of the position. But when she understood, she moved with alacrity and directed my willy to the appropriate orifice. The deed was done.

That first night, we fucked like rabbits. In subsequent afternoons and evenings, the pattern continued. In addition to my dad's car, we had other hideouts. A favourite was a little-used stairway in our high school. In fact, we screwed nearly every day that year. But all good things must come to an end. The next year, I went away to university. I'd been accepted at McGill in Montreal. By the time I came home for a holiday, the Bowmans had moved to the States. Reverend Bowman had been offered a much better position as the pastor of a Lutheran church in Boston. I never saw Doris again.

Stacie spoke, jarring me out of my reverie. "Gosh," she said, "Mr. Charles, I've never been to a place this grand. I just don't know what to chose. What would you suggest?"

I smiled at her. "First of all," I said, "my friends call me Jack. Second, this is an average restaurant, not at all 'grand, ' whatever you think of the decor. Personally, I think it's a bit overdone. Third, what you chose depends entirely on what sort of thing you'd like to eat and how hungry you are. As you can see, there are all kinds of dishes. If you feel like breakfast, you can have an omelette or some other egg dish. You can have pasta. You can have fish, chicken or veal. Or you can go the heavy route with a steak. It's up to you."

"I've never heard of steak and eggs together. Is it good?"

"Why don't you try it and find out?"

She beamed. "Could I?"

"You certainly may." The waiter came to our table and stood expectantly. I said, "The lady will have steak and eggs." I turned to Stacie, "How would you like them done? The steak and the eggs, that is."

"I'd like the eggs over easy, and the steak without too much blood," she said, wrinkling her nose, presumably at the thought of blood.

"OK," I said, "she'd like over-easy eggs and a medium rare steak. I'll have the same, except with soft poached eggs and a blue steak. And what would you like to drink?"

"Could I have orange juice?"

"A large juice for the lady and a pint of Rickard's Red for me."

The waiter left. Stacie looked at me seriously. She asked, "Do you usually have beer for breakfast?"

"Not always," I said, "only on special occasions."

Stacie laughed. Her laughter sounded like tinkling bells. Then she said, "Mr. Charles..."

I interrupted, "Jack."

"Jack," she said, smiling once more, "you said that you're a lawyer. What kind of law do you practice?"

I was intrigued. Most teenagers probably had no idea that there were different specialties in law. "I specialize in intellectual property," I said.

Our drinks came. I lifted my beer and clinked glasses with Stacie. She took a sip of her juice. "Gee, that's really good. I'll bet that it's fresh-squeezed. I never had that in a restaurant before." She took another sip and then said, "Intellectual property. That's like software and stuff, isn't it? And music?"

My respect for this kid was growing. "Yes, it is. But it's a lot more than that. Anything that people create or invent is, or should be, their property. If you paint a picture, write a novel, compose a symphony or make a better mousetrap, you should own your creation. But, just as there are people who'll try to steal your wallet or your car, there are lots of people who try to take away your creations. That's where I come in. I try to keep them from doing it."

"That sounds really interesting," she said. "It sounds like something I'd like to do." She took another sip of her juice and continured. "But you know, some things about the law are weird. For instance, in Canada lawyers are called 'barristers and solicitors.' In the U. K., they're either barristers or solicitors. They either practice law outside the courts or argue in front of the court. In this country, they can do both. And all the provinces except for Quebec have systems based on British Common Law. Quebec bases its system on the Napoleonic Code. Well, sort of. Anyway." She grinned at me. "Isn't that weird?"

I was speechless. Then she looked at me with an expression that was fearful and defiant at the same time. "I'm going to be a lawyer," she said.

I noticed that she didn't say that she wanted to be a lawyer. She said that she was going to be one, as though it were an obvious fact. From what she'd just told me, I wouldn't dispute her.

"That's great," I said, "the law can be a very rewarding profession. And I don't mean just monetarily. You can get great moral and intellectual satisfaction from it. But it isn't easy. And it doesn't get any easier."

Stacie said, "I know it isn't easy." She paused and looked at me with that defiant look again. "I've had nearly perfect marks all the way through junior high and high school. That wasn't easy, either. Believe me."

I took a swig of beer. "Stacie," I said, "I'm sure that wasn't easy. I didn't mean to imply that you couldn't do it. Let's start over again. You're an interesting person, and I really like you. I'd like to get to know you better. Let's be friends. OK?" I held out my hand.

She shook my hand solemnly. "Friends," she said.

Over brunch, I got to know more about Stacie. She was an only child. She'd been born in Scarborough, a suburb of Toronto. Her father had a fairly prosperous insurance brokerage. She'd been raised in nice middle-class surroundings until she was ten years old. Then, seemingly without warning, her dad had committed suicide. That part of her life was obviously difficult for her to talk about, but she went on.

Her father had sold insurance, so he had a great life insurance policy. But Stacie and her mother didn't get a penny from it. I understood the reason why without her telling me. It was a standard clause in life insurance policies. Because her dad had taken his own life, the policy paid nothing. Stacie's mum was suddenly penniless. She had to sell their home and look for work. Unfortunately, she'd been a housewife since Stacie was born. She had no marketable job skills. Stacie and her mother wound up on welfare and eventually in Regent Park.