He leaned back in the rich, brown leather of his chair, placing his feet on his desk. His gaze was directed to the opposing wall where he had pictures of his four sons and four grandsons. A sharp stab of pain went through his chest as he remembered those days, those priceless days when the boys were infants and he and his wife would take them everywhere: excursions; camping trips; cruises; many, many trips to Maui; endless birthdays; school concerts and field trips; and Christmases to die for. He had not realized at the time how blessed he was. He was a brilliant lawyer, and before he was thirty, he was commanding a salary of over $500,000 per year, which was increasing rapidly. He was a multimillionaire by the time he was forty and he and his beautiful family were the envy of the city. As is often the case with men or women so showered with fortune, he took his charmed existence for granted, assuming it would last forever. He did not see the clouds rolling in—bittercold storm clouds from the Canadian Arctic.
He spoiled his children, paying for endless extracurricular pursuits— hockey, soccer, piano lessons, trips to Italy, cars for graduation presents. He had encouraged all four to go to university, but none went. Then his oldest son died of a heroin overdose. The boy had been using since high school, and somehow, with the beehive state of his practice, he had been oblivious to the signs, and never forgave himself for it. Then his second child died at the age of twenty-one from complications from severe Type 1 diabetes, which he had developed in childhood. The complications were brutal. The boy died one piece at a time.
His two other sons burned through multiple marriages and affairs, borrowing money from him that they never intended to repay, and never aspired for anything beyond laboring part time at construction jobs. Mordecai knew that both of them were involved with alcohol and street drugs, and begged them to stop, only to be met by endless excuses and denials delivered under volleys of curses.
Then his wife’s adrenal glands burned out from all the stress of the deaths of the two boys and a husband who seemed to spend more and more time at his office. The fizzle of the adrenal glands led to Addison’s Disease, a longterm, chronic illness that robbed her of all energy and kept her bed bound for twenty-three to twenty-four hours a day, suffering from unmanageable headaches, blood pressure that, on a good day, was seventy-five over forty-five, and a depression so black and intense, he could not remember a day when she hadn’t wept. She had been ill for more than fifteen years and became addicted to marijuana and Ativan. She was deeply mired in depression and addiction when he left her. Rather than engage in protracted matrimonial legal battles, he asked what she wanted, to which she replied, “Everything,” which he promptly gave her. “Everything” included their homes, investments and savings, and $10,000 a month net of taxes in perpetuity.
He met another woman three months after the divorce documents had been inked and a relationship of true, intense, perfect love blossomed instantly. He married her within a year, and was ready to take on the world again, rebuilding his fortune with a stunning woman twenty years his junior. Two years passed before she threw the first punch. Mystified, he asked her a few days later what that was all about, to which his new love replied that she had just temporarily lost it, begged for his forgiveness, and they moved on. A year later she threw another punch, and six months after that she threw two and added a kick.
She became ever more abusive and violent, tendencies that worsened exponentially over the years. She pummeled, stomped, and kicked him unrelentingly. He left when he became fearful of the situation, not for his own safety, but out of concern that at some point he would strike back. He had never struck a woman in his life, and was not about to start. He left her in the dead of night, covered by bruises, with a broken spirit and a broken heart. There was no climbing back. He again eschewed legal representation and gave her everything—the new house and the rebuilt investments. By this time he was sixty and had accepted an appointment to the bench. He gradually came to realize that after decades of spectacularly high earnings, of adulation from partners, clients, friends, fans, and family, he was broke—financially and psychologically. He grudgingly attended to his duties as Supreme Court judge, and spent more time in the past than the present. He lived in a small, 1,200-square-foot apartment in a cheap section of the city, and eschewed visits to the mansions and penthouses of his friends who had not been nearly as successful, other than having married well.
There was one picture in particular, taken on a bridge on the Berg Lake Trail in the breathtaking Mount Robson Provincial Park. It showed the six of them—the four boys, ranging from ages five to eleven; his first wife, Nadia; and Shawn himself, longish hair and boyish good looks at age thirty-five. They were a stunning family and a far cry from his present life. He fought back, as he often did, tears of regret, wishing those days back, cursing himself that he had taken for granted the wealth that had been showered on him.
He forced his eyes away from the photograph and turned his attention to the matter at hand. Who were these people to so interfere with the course of justice? Who could possibly have the gall to attack a courtroom? He disrobed, got into a pair of ancient jeans, and headed to the chief justice’s office.
“Chief, what the hell do I do now? This has
