Eight Hundred Grapes (59)

I felt my skin getting hot. “That’s embarrassing.”

“Sure is.”

I opened the files on Kirby’s desk. A legal case from the 1800s stared back at Kirby, Philbert v. Philbert, a small family case in which the grown children weren’t informed of a property’s sale. In that case, it had been a horse farm. Since their trust was linked with the land, the grown children had contested the horse farm’s sale, contending that they were losing out on future earnings.

My law firm had used this case once while representing a greedy billionaire whose father had built shopping malls all over Los Angeles. He was planning on selling one for one hundred million and the son was trying to stop him. Now I was using the case for something else.

“What can I do you for?” she said. “Because I’m not reading any of this.”

“I’m filing an injunction to stop the sale of my father’s vineyard.”

“Your father is selling his vineyard?” She looked shocked. “My father didn’t mention it.”

“Yep, to Murray Grant Wines.”

“Whoa. No way! Those corporate scumbags?”

I nodded, happy that Kirby was stuck on that, my desire to go up against a major corporation, and not the illegitimacy of what I wanted to do.

“Their grandson, the one who is taking over Murray Grant Wines, he sucks. He’s a major asshole.”

“You’ve met him?”

“No, I read about him. On Twitter. Give me your filing.”

She grabbed the appropriate paperwork, smiling, happy to be in the know about this. That was fine as long as she was willing to do her job here and get the lawsuit going. The reason corporations often won lawsuits was that they out-lawyered the small guy. Maybe I didn’t have a leg to stand on, but I had the manpower to see this thing through. And I was going to use it.

Kirby shrugged, apologetically. “You’re not going to be able to see the judge until next week. And it’s probably going to be Judge Riley, once he comes back from his fishing trip. He’s gonna be in a bad mood too, irritated he’s at work again.”

I nodded, knowing I’d lose in front of pretty much any judge. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was getting him to hear my argument for why my father couldn’t sell the vineyard without approval, to create work for Jacob’s lawyer, to create trepidation for Jacob’s board about getting involved. Why would they want to get involved with a small vineyard that was making waves? They could find another small winery with a good reputation. The upside wasn’t worth it.

I looked at Kirby, hoping she’d help with the second part of the plan, knowing it was critical that she did.

She smiled, thrilled to be on the inside of this secret. “I, of course, won’t tell anyone in the meantime,” she said.

“Thank you.”

She nodded seriously. “Of course. I would never.”

Which proved that the second she was on her own again, she would.



I felt pretty pleased with myself as I walked out of the courthouse.

Then the phone rang.

It was someone else I’d gone to high school with. Ethan Tropper. Ethan Tropper, who had once convinced Finn it was a good idea for them to break into my father’s liquor cabinet, while Bobby stood guard in the hallway, replacing all the bourbon with Dr Pepper. Ethan Tropper: former juvenile delinquent, current deputy sheriff of Sebastopol.

“This is Deputy Sheriff Ethan Tropper. I’ve got someone here who wants you to come and get him,” he said.

This was what he said instead of hello.

“Finn?” I said.

“Finn,” he said.

“I’m five minutes away.”

“Congratulations,” he said.

Then he hung up.





The Starkville City Jail I didn’t have much choice here,” Ethan said, leading me down the hall toward the small jail cell where Finn had spent the night drying out, Ethan not officially booking him, but not letting him roam the streets either.


“These last couple of months, it’s been a lot. Disorderly conduct, drunk driving, sleeping in his car.”

“Seriously? That isn’t a crime.”

Ethan nodded. “It is here,” he said.

I didn’t like thinking of what it had been like for Finn since Margaret had told him how she felt about him, Margaret both closer to him than ever, and further away, Bobby unavailable for consolation. It just about broke my heart to picture him sitting in jail, Ethan Tropper the only one who was available to talk to him.

“Last night was the last straw, especially after the fire hydrant incident.”

“What did you just say?”

“The fire hydrant incident. Finn rammed his truck into a fire hydrant. Finn destroyed public property.”

“What makes you think it was him?”

“I don’t think. I know. I was able to decipher the marks left on the fire hydrant and match them to the chipped paint on Finn’s truck.”

Tropper looked amazingly proud of himself for this great detective work, or for rehashing what he had seen on CSI: Miami.

I raised my hand, unwilling to let my brother take the hit, at least for that. “That’s on me, Ethan. I was driving the truck.”

Tropper cocked his head. “That was you? You hit and ran?”