contact the prison and explain that Randy needed to call his attorney.
“Tell them it’s about his case. They have to let him make the call then.”
“I’m on it.” Harper bounded up the stairs and returned only a few minutes later. “They’re going to have him call now.”
“Great. Thanks. I’m so glad I hired you.”
“You should be,” Harper said with a self-satisfied smile.
***
Factoring in downtown Lexington traffic, we left the house on West Chestnut Street a little after two. Even though Nicholasville was less than ten miles south of Lexington as the crow flies, it usually took at least half an hour to make it downtown, due to traffic. The beautiful and historic Henry Clay district was located just a little east of the middle of town. Central to the area was Ashland, historic home of Henry Clay, a famous Kentucky politician from the early 1800’s. Ashland was a lovely brick mansion, which sat on several acres of lush green landscaping. People from all over America made the sojourn yearly to Lexington, just to visit the former plantation. All of the houses subsequently built around Ashland were large, pretty, and surrounded by tall oak trees which lined the streets and cast divine shade over the sidewalks. Most Lexingtonians envy those fortunate enough to live in this district.
B. Cecil Hayes was one of those fortunate souls. His house, located at the end of Margaret Street, adjacent to the Idle Hour Country Club, was a grey-stone Tudor-style cottage with black shutters and a black front door. Beautifully tended pink Knockout roses nearly covered the front windows. Harper and I walked up the short sidewalk to the front door and I rang the doorbell. I could hear the melodic chime through the door followed by the voice of Mr. Hayes telling us he was on his way.
The door opened and there stood the very old attorney, bent forward with age, leaning his weight on a gnarled wooden cane with an amber-colored glass knob on top. He was wearing a brown suit, which nearly swallowed him whole, and a yellow button-up shirt, no tie.
“You must be Ms. McLanahan,” he said with a pleasant smile.
“Actually, it’s Ms. Carter. But you can just call me Libby. This is my assistant, Harper.”
He took a step to the side. “Well, it’s nice to meet you lovely ladies. Right this way, please.” He stretched out his arm, indicating we should step into the house.
I couldn’t help but admire the original dark wood flooring, polished to a high shine. The walls were covered in hunter green and gold-patterned wallpaper and several framed paintings of famous racehorses lined the walls. The furniture looked to be antique and very expensive.
We followed him through the living room and down the hallway until we turned right into a room at the back of the house—apparently his office.
“The file you’re seeking is around here somewhere,” he said as he shuffled across the dark green carpet. “Your father called from the prison not long after we hung up and gave his permission for you to have it.”
“That’s good,” I said as I glanced around the dark room, wondering how on earth he was going to find the file. Despite the nearly immaculate nature of the rest of his house, Mr. Hayes’s office was a wreck. Manila file folders were strewn about all over the floor, his desk, and on the large dark wood bookshelves. There was barely room to walk. Harper and I had to tiptoe around the piles of file folders to avoid tripping over them.
He walked around behind the antique cherry desk and started rummaging through a tall stack of files.
“Ah,” he said after a few awkward minutes of silence. “Found it.”
Mr. Hayes produced a very thick file folder with a blue striped label and my father’s name on it, bound with a large red rubber band. He extended it in my direction and I grabbed it with both hands.
“Now,” he said as he sunk down in his maroon wingback leather chair. “On the phone earlier, you
“Tell them it’s about his case. They have to let him make the call then.”
“I’m on it.” Harper bounded up the stairs and returned only a few minutes later. “They’re going to have him call now.”
“Great. Thanks. I’m so glad I hired you.”
“You should be,” Harper said with a self-satisfied smile.
***
Factoring in downtown Lexington traffic, we left the house on West Chestnut Street a little after two. Even though Nicholasville was less than ten miles south of Lexington as the crow flies, it usually took at least half an hour to make it downtown, due to traffic. The beautiful and historic Henry Clay district was located just a little east of the middle of town. Central to the area was Ashland, historic home of Henry Clay, a famous Kentucky politician from the early 1800’s. Ashland was a lovely brick mansion, which sat on several acres of lush green landscaping. People from all over America made the sojourn yearly to Lexington, just to visit the former plantation. All of the houses subsequently built around Ashland were large, pretty, and surrounded by tall oak trees which lined the streets and cast divine shade over the sidewalks. Most Lexingtonians envy those fortunate enough to live in this district.
B. Cecil Hayes was one of those fortunate souls. His house, located at the end of Margaret Street, adjacent to the Idle Hour Country Club, was a grey-stone Tudor-style cottage with black shutters and a black front door. Beautifully tended pink Knockout roses nearly covered the front windows. Harper and I walked up the short sidewalk to the front door and I rang the doorbell. I could hear the melodic chime through the door followed by the voice of Mr. Hayes telling us he was on his way.
The door opened and there stood the very old attorney, bent forward with age, leaning his weight on a gnarled wooden cane with an amber-colored glass knob on top. He was wearing a brown suit, which nearly swallowed him whole, and a yellow button-up shirt, no tie.
“You must be Ms. McLanahan,” he said with a pleasant smile.
“Actually, it’s Ms. Carter. But you can just call me Libby. This is my assistant, Harper.”
He took a step to the side. “Well, it’s nice to meet you lovely ladies. Right this way, please.” He stretched out his arm, indicating we should step into the house.
I couldn’t help but admire the original dark wood flooring, polished to a high shine. The walls were covered in hunter green and gold-patterned wallpaper and several framed paintings of famous racehorses lined the walls. The furniture looked to be antique and very expensive.
We followed him through the living room and down the hallway until we turned right into a room at the back of the house—apparently his office.
“The file you’re seeking is around here somewhere,” he said as he shuffled across the dark green carpet. “Your father called from the prison not long after we hung up and gave his permission for you to have it.”
“That’s good,” I said as I glanced around the dark room, wondering how on earth he was going to find the file. Despite the nearly immaculate nature of the rest of his house, Mr. Hayes’s office was a wreck. Manila file folders were strewn about all over the floor, his desk, and on the large dark wood bookshelves. There was barely room to walk. Harper and I had to tiptoe around the piles of file folders to avoid tripping over them.
He walked around behind the antique cherry desk and started rummaging through a tall stack of files.
“Ah,” he said after a few awkward minutes of silence. “Found it.”
Mr. Hayes produced a very thick file folder with a blue striped label and my father’s name on it, bound with a large red rubber band. He extended it in my direction and I grabbed it with both hands.
“Now,” he said as he sunk down in his maroon wingback leather chair. “On the phone earlier, you
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