Lucas was always a very special kind of lawyer. A prototype not made for mass production. They did not even break the mould after he was produced. Hell, there wasn’t even a mould to start with. He was some fluke of nature. An aberration of sorts.
I am not sure whether you may remember the Ster Kinekor Art Nouveau cinema scene. Where they played out all those depressing French feature films about the dark side of love which were tediously slow; yet, just like a Barry White pipe from Valhalla Park, they were also strangely fulfilling. There was a commercial which always played out before the main feature started – about two allegedly very different, but actually very boring, very white English speaking South African brothers “who’ll go on to having very long and successful careers at Rand Merchant Bank”.
Lucas was one of these brothers on the surface to his friends and family; however, deep down, in the singularity of his being, he was very different. Lucas went onto becoming partner at one of those big South African law-firms, I am not exactly sure which one.
Lucas used to work hard, way too hard actually. He’d be burning the legal meth pipe until 10pm at least three nights a week on mergers and acquisitions contracts at his opulent office. His wife Jane protested at first, but eventually did not mind, just as long as he brought home the pastrami and gave her the lifestyle she felt she deserved in Constantia.
One night at 9:30pm Lucas felt sick, claustrophobic actually, in his sprawling office; he took off his tie, but it didn’t help. He then took all his clothing off and sat on the edge of his sofa, wearing nothing but his expensive white boxer shorts underwear, and his favourite gold watch; with his head sunk heavily in his hands, cupping his ears tightly, trying to keep his mind silent and his being steady, in an attempt to drown out the voice in the back of his head: “what am I doing with my life? Why am I busting my arse here, night after night; I have no life.”
He immediately got dressed and headed over to a revue bar called the “Maverick”. All of a sudden, he could breathe again. As he sat down and ordered a R2,000 bottle of Baroness Nadine Rupert and Rothschild sauvignon blanc, he saw a parade of twenty something bikini clad women of all shapes, sizes, hues, with short hair, long hair, curly hair, straight hair, passing him – each one whispering in her very own breathy tongue: “I want you Lucas”; “meet me after I finish tonight, Lucas”; “Jane will never know”; “you still seem so lonely, Lucas”; “let’s get a drink, Lucas”; “come back to my place, my boyfriend is away”; “what are you doing here, Mr Lucas?”
Startled by the magnificence of this woman, he only realised who she was when she sat down next to him. “You remember me, don’t you Mr Lucas? I’m Tammy. I used to go out with your son James’ friend, Jono. Jono and I were studying law at UCT”. Lucas poured a huge glass of wine for himself and a smaller one for Tammy. Gears cranked in Lucas’ head, nerve endings rearranged themselves, and his big heart got slightly smaller. Lucas did not make it home that night. He paid off the Maverick to release Tammy. He called Jane at 7am from the Cape Sun Hotel penthouse suite and told her he’d fallen asleep on the sofa at the office, and he’d see her for dinner later. He called the office and told them he was busy with a site inspection.
He offered Tammy a part-time job as his personal legal secretary at a R 250,000 p.a. salary. He gave her a small car to drive and his dictation to type. The dictation was nothing really, except him telling her what errands she needed to run for him, what files to bring to him, and what clothing he wanted her to wear for him. He told her he was “The Supreme Being” and she was his “beautiful slave”.
Everything was going just swell until, one Sunday night, all alone in bed, Jane felt in her post-menopausal water that things were just not the way they seemed with Lucas. She called his office at 7am on Monday morning and was told Lucas was not asleep on the couch. Jane found out very quickly that evening what he’d been up to, once she’d calmly told him: “you tell me who this little slut is you’re sleeping with and you cut her loose immediately, or else I’ll go get me a clever Jewish divorce lawyer and he’ll get you to write the biggest cheque of your sad little life to me.”
Lucas called Tammy, crying, and said it was over and he was so very sorry, but he had health issues and he needed to check into hospital for some emergency surgery. “But I have bills to pay and you promised me a full-time position, Mr Lucas”.
Tammy eventually sued the law-firm and Mr Lucas. The law-firm said in court they had not authorised the employment contract with Tammy and Mr Lucas had passed on. The Court found in favour of Tammy for R 600,000, but said it was not sure how she’d ever get paid by an estate late.
(This fictionalisation is loosely based on a real case in London – see link: https://www.lawgazette.co.uk/news/playboy-dancer-recruited-by-solicitor-awarded-almost-30000/5118611.article)
Contributed by:
Barry Varkel, an attorney of the High Court of South Africa and Solicitor of the Supreme Court of England and Wales.
Author of Nigiri Law, Goy Vey and Big Jon Harry’s Revenge
