Read Online Proof of Intent by William J. Coughlin - Free Book Online

were all fine-looking girls, I’ll give them that. Lisa is about five-two, with long rich brown hair that meets her brow in a widow’s peak, a pert nose, a square Irish jaw, large brown eyes, and a lovely smile.
    Just then, however, she was not smiling. She wore a pair of jeans that could have stood a wash and a shapeless sweater that hid her body. The last time I’d seen her she was verging on plump. Now she looked wan, undernourished, a good fifteen pounds lighter.
    â€œYou look terrible,” I said.
    â€œMarvelous to see you, too, Dad.” She gave me a bored smile and sat down heavily in my chair.
    â€œYou also look plastered.”
    â€œOh just taking a little vacation from sobriety. Off to the islands, don’t you know?” Her tone was arch, an ironic put-on, as she took a swig of the awful Ronrico. She wasn’t stumbling drunk or slurring her words, but it was obvious she’d already had a few.
    A distant part of my brain wanted to join her, to match her pull for pull. Off to the islands. Let the problems of Lisa Sloan and Miles Dane float away on the same aromatic tide.
    â€œI just flew all the way to New York to find you,” I said.
    Lisa looked at me curiously. “Really.”
    I nodded.
    â€œIsn’t that quaint. Were you going to save me from myself?”
    There are maudlin drunks, there are happy drunks, there are thrill-seeking drunks . . . Apparently, though, Lisa took after her Irish forbears: She was a fighting drunk.
    I threw her the keys to my house. “Take a cab back to my place. Sleep it off. When you wake up sober, we’ll talk.”
    She gave me the sarcastic smile again. “I was kind of looking for work. You got anything around here for a law school dropout with a drinking problem?”
    The truth was, my practice was already stretched a little thin. And with the Dane business heating up, I really did need some help. But I wasn’t going to broach that subject with a drunk woman.
    â€œWe can talk about it later.”
    â€œYou know I’d earn my keep. I’ve worked for you before.”
    â€œWhen you’re sober,” I said sharply.
    She sighed theatrically. “Oh well. I suppose there’s always prostitution.”
    â€œDammit, Lisa . . .” I was about to launch into her, but then I clamped my mouth shut. What was the point? I am of the firm opinion—and this is confirmed by my own experience with a wide variety of wives, girlfriends, law partners, and concerned friends who tried to talk sense into me back when I was drinking—that trying to reason with a drunk person about his or her condition is not just a vast waste of time, but is actually counterproductive. It makes people defensive and angry, which only increases their interest in the bottle.
    It’s agonizing to watch someone you love do self-destructive things and know that trying to intervene or make decisions for them is the worst thing you can do. But sometimes that’s just the way it is.
    The phone rang.
    â€œCan you get that, Mrs. Fenton?” I called.
    The phone continued to ring. I supposed Mrs. Fenton had discreetly gone off to powder her nose so that Lisa and I could talk in privacy.
    â€œFor Pete’s sake, Lisa, I’ve got work to do,” I said. I knew I seemed unfeeling, but in her current combative condition, the best thing I could do was get Lisa back to my house in hopes she might go to sleep and wake up in a saner frame of mind. I took the bottle of Ron Rico off the desk, set it on the floor, picked up my ringing phone. “Charley Sloan.”
    â€œYou that big lawyer?” It was the voice of a young man. “The one off the TV?” I could hear the noise of jail in the background. When you’ve practiced law as long as I have, you learn to recognize the sound.
    â€œI’m Charley Sloan. Who am I speaking to?”
    â€œYeah, my name is Leon. I’m down here at the jail. I was