Due Justice

Chapter 25

“Maybe. But Fred is the successful one. He picks the winners. You only have to be around them together to figure that out.”

Was she calling me stupid now, too?

Carolyn drove right up to her ball, jumped out of the cart and grabbed her nine iron. She set up, took her shot, landed on the green and jumped back in the cart, all in less than two minutes. Mashed the accelerator and sped over to my ball, stomped the brake and threw me forward.

“Do you think they make these things with seat belts?” I asked as I got out of the cart slowly, and tried to shake myself out so I could concentrate to beat her lie.

“Sorry,” she said.

In a pig’s eye.

You can learn a lot about a person by the way they act on the golf course. Polite?  Play by the rules?  Short temper?  Clubs in the lake?  Like a trial, it’s a microcosm of life. Carolyn Young was impatient, fast. And very good. In golf and in life.

Tested my theory.

Slowly, I studied the angle of the ball to the pin like a newbie. Laid my club on the ground and walked back to check the direction of the ball.

She fidgeted like a kid needing a pee.

Yep. Speed was her ally. Her tactic was to rush me, get me frazzled. She’d be on her best game and I’d be off mine. Fat chance.

After I hit, I strolled back to the cart, wiped the dirt off my club with my towel, and took my time. Then I moseyed to the passenger side, climbed in, and hung on.

Again, she mashed the accelerator before I settled into the seat, and drove about 20 miles an hour toward the green. Maybe this was a specially jazzed cart, customized for her need for speed?

She said, “I’ve known Grover for years. He’s always been an insufferable chauvinist.”

“Is he old enough for that?”  I asked her.

She laughed. Jerked the cart to a stop. Jumped out. Grabbed her putter.

“The biggest problem he has,” she continued talking during her putt while the ball rolled seven feet, curved left and fell into the cup, “is how many law firms he’s been booted from. He stays with each one as long as they can stand each other. A nasty divorce follows. Your turn.”

She collected her specialized kryptonite ball from the cup and stood to one side, positioned to gloat.

I stooped down, laid my club from the ball toward the hole, took a couple of practice swings. I could see her tapping her foot and fidgeting, getting more annoyed by the second. Some people just have no patience.

She continued to talk while I belabored the putt. “Generally, he gets asked to leave. Too many junior lawyers complain about the way he treats them; too many lawsuits against the firm for discrimination or harassment or whatever.”

She wanted to demand hurry, but she kept quiet.

Finally, after delaying a good five minutes, I hit the putt.

My ball rolled ever so slowly right toward the hole and stopped about six inches short.

“That’s a gimme,” she said, hopefully.

“No, no. I insist. I’ll putt it in,” I replied and plodded through the whole procedure again. Wondered how long she could hold her temper; and what she’d do when she lost it.

“But he has the magic touch with juries and whenever he loses one position, he gets another. For some reason, as offensive as he can be to his friends and neighbors, juries love him,” I told her.