recording *
briefed *
private matter *
glassy *
poised *
roiled *
revulsion *
The corporate conference room I sat in alone seemed pretty typical for a high-priced lawyer's office. Dark stained teak walls provided a neutral backdrop that highlighted the expensive art hanging from the walls.
I stood from the plush cushioned chair and started to tour the room examining the artworks. If I'm not mistaken, one wall hosted a Cezanne sketch. Another featured a Cubist version of the city skyline but it was the framed picture in the far corner that captured my attention.
A talented if somewhat mechanistic painter had depicted rolling hills of row after row of grape vines. Superimposed over the image was a close-up of a bug that looked for all the world like a slug.
"That's a Glassy-Winged Sharpshooter," the patrician voice behind me startled my concentration on the image.
"What's that?" I turned to examine the newcomer to the room. He was dressed immaculately in a pinstripe suit, a regimental necktie and a gold chain hanging from his vest pocket to what I assumed was a very expensive, if not heirloom, timepiece.
"I owe it all to that little critter," I blinked at hearing this fellow use the word "critter."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I grew up in the California wine country," now the lawyer was standing next to me staring at the unusual image along with me. "I was poised to spend my life working those fields, creating great wines, and living the life my parents had enjoyed before me."
I nodded but didn't say anything, unsure of where this was going.
"Then, in my sophomore year at Stanford, Glassy here changed everything," the attorney had now taken off his metal-rimmed glasses and was polishing the lenses one by one with a monogrammed handkerchief. "Within a few months, this little bugger had left the family vineyards barren from something called Pierce's Disease. Heard of it?"
I shook my head as he replaced the glasses on the bridge of his nose.
"I hadn't either at the time," his voice had assumed a wistful tone as he revisited that time. "So I went down to one of my biology professors who gave me a complete briefing. Pierce's will wipe out a vineyard crop faster than you can express your revulsion. Nothing's left but twigs and dust."
I followed him as he turned away from the image and we returned to the long oak conference table. A technician had come into the room to set up the recording equipment for our conversation. Feeling self-concious, I combed my short red hair.
"Something about that bug roiled my world," an assistant handed him a bound leather notebook opened to a page with my name along the top as he sat with his back to the camera. "My dad died from the stress of that year. My mother followed soon thereafter. I sold the land and enrolled in law school. Now I owe my life to glassy."
I didn't quite know how to respond to that so I said nothing.
"So, now to this not-so private matter we're here to discuss today," the friendliness was gone from his voice as we sat down to the deposition that could determine my future and the future of my children.
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