Greatest Course That Never Was A Novel

Chapter 1 I had not expected to receive any mail on my first day at work. After all, the start of my career as a new lawyer at Butler and Yates was not exactly the talk of Atlanta. In fact, the firm wouldn't even mark the occasion until later in the summer--after I had presumably passed the bar exam. Even then, it wouldn't exactly be a media event. Instead, there would be a couple hundred engraved cards mailed to friends of the firm announcing that Charles F. Hunter had become an associate there. That's why the letter came as such a surprise. Outside of my family and a few close friends, I had no idea who would know--much less care--that I was here. I also noticed that the postmark was two weeks old. The letter had apparently been lying around for a while. Whoever sent this little missive must have known for some time that I was coming to work at Butler & Yates. To add to the mystery, it bore no return address. The only clue about its origin was the postmark from Augusta, Georgia, just a hundred miles or so east of Atlanta on Interstate 20. Aside from its significance as the home of the Augusta National Golf Club and the Masters tournament, I couldn't think of any real connection that I had with Augusta. I knew the letter wasn't from one of my classmates in law school. Almost all of them preferred E-mail to the U.S. Postal Service. There wasn't anything distinctive about the envelope. It certainly wasn't Crane's Crest. Instead, it looked to be right out of a box of the cheap kind you could buy at the corner drugstore. Judging from its slightly yellow tint, the box had been on the shelf for a long time, too. In contrast to the computer-generated addresses usually seen on mail received at a law firm, this envelope was addressed to me in a crude handwriting. That certainly added to my interest. "Good morning." My reverie was broken by the sound of a soft female voice. I looked up to see an auburn-haired 40-something secretary standing in my doorway with a cup of coffee in her hands. She had the no-nonsense look of someone who knew a whole lot more about the law business than I did. "Sorry if I surprised you." "Oh, no," I assured her. She smiled at my obvious lie. "I'm Gloria. I was here when you clerked last summer. I work for Mr. Guidry down the hall. He asked me to give you a hand if you need anything." I suppose it was her way of letting me know that she hadn't volunteered for the job. I could imagine that few secretaries relished the notion of transcribing the awkward dictation of a new lawyer, or otherwise nursing him through his early efforts at malpractice. Nonetheless, I was pleased that Emile Guidry had taken an interest in me. He was one of the stars of the firm. Now in his mid-50s, Guidry was at the top of his game as a trial lawyer. He had built his reputation by defending chemical companies against suits brought by individuals who claimed to have been poisoned by various kinds of noxious emissions. It was no easy trick convincing a jury that his Fortune 500 clients were the good guys, but he brought in one defense verdict after another. Usually, he was able to persuade the jury either that the plaintiff hadn't been hurt too badly or that his condition had some other cause. No one was better at medical causation than Emile Guidry. Guidry was originally from New Iberia, a small town in South Louisiana. Perhaps its most noteworthy claim to fame was its close proximity to Avery Island, home of the McIlhenny family plantation where the world-famous Tabasco pepper sauce is produced. Guidry was a genuine Cajun or, as he preferred, "coonass." When I first heard him use the term, I was a bit surprised. I had heard it used before, while I was in law school in Louisiana at Tulane, but always with somewhat derogatory connotations. HoweverVeron, J. Michael is the author of 'Greatest Course That Never Was A Novel', published 2002 under ISBN 9780767907170 and ISBN 0767907175.