Duplicity
 
Author: Rebecca
 
Email: oonagh1969@yahoo.com
 
Rating: PG-13 (Drug use and profanity)
 
Summary: This story takes place the week before Nick's arrest.

Author's note: My gratitude to Erica whose suggestions and comments
made my writing far more intelligent. The characters are from the TV
show "The Guardian". This is a work of fiction.
 
 
~*~
 
November, 2000
 
Attorney Nick Fallin stared at himself in the bathroom mirror and took inventory 
of the mileage on his 31-year-old face:  Bloodshot eyes, untamed greasy blond 
curly hair, puffy face and stubble that had long since saw 5 o’clock; his dirty, 
wrinkled t-shirt had an unexplained tear at the bottom.  He cradled his head to 
try to stop the pounding.  Too much tequila, he thought.  His cottonmouth and 
queasy stomach did not argue with his assessment. He tried to put the few 
memories he had of the weekend back into place and gave up.  Too many pieces 
were missing.  He hated himself when he allowed that to happen.  He wondered 
when his life became such a bad movie-of-the-week. On second thought, he thought 
it was closer to a bad after-school special.  Nick Fallin, antihero, the shady 
character whose life kids were warned theirs would be most like if they started 
drinking or doing drugs or whatever message the movie preached that week.  He 
smiled ruefully at that thought.  In prep school, where TVs and pot equally were 
considered contraband, he and his friends would huddle around a small, portable 
black and white TV in someone’s dorm room, smoking pot while watching those 
cheesy after-school specials warning kids to stay off drugs.
 
Nick put some Visine in eyes, shaved and then hopped into the shower.  Back in 
his bedroom, he sat down at the edge of bed and cut a line of coke on his 
nightstand after getting dressed. He didn’t like to do coke before work, 
especially in the morning, but he needed this pick-me-up or else his hangover 
would get worse.  Noticing the time, he ran into the kitchen to eat some stale 
saltine crackers leftover from some long-ago takeout dinner to settle his 
stomach before he left for work. He hoped he wouldn’t throw it back up. He 
needed coffee but decided to buy some from the Starbucks in the lobby of his 
building.  His father valued promptness and didn’t appreciate Nick strolling 
late into a meeting.  He noticed the red light blinking on his answering machine 
and hit play to listen to the message on his way out the door.
 
“Nicholas, it’s your father.  As you know, this Thursday’s Thanksgiving.  I was 
wondering if you aren’t busy if you would like to join me at the club for 
dinner.  Call me and let me know what your plans are.”
 
Nick had forgotten that this week was Thanksgiving.  He always tried to get out 
of Pittsburgh during any holiday so he can avoid spending time with his father.  
It was too late to make any plans now.  He hated the holidays.  He despised the 
pretense of loving families and happy people and Burton was one of the worst 
offenders. He pictured Burton laughing and smiling at parties and pretending the 
Fallins were one big, happy, functional family.  It all made him sick.  He also 
missed his mother the most during this time. 
 
Nick pushed those thoughts out of his mind as he drove into the parking garage 
of the Fricke building, where the Fallin and Associates Law Office was located.  
He needed to concentrate on his work and to play the part of a competent, young 
corporate attorney-at-law.  He checked himself in the rearview mirror to make 
sure that all outwardly signs of his hangover have disappeared.  He still felt 
like crap but at least he looked presentable.  He got out of his Saab, set the 
alarm and walked to the elevator to live the second half of his duplicitous 
life. 
 
Burton Fallin puffed on a cigarette and watched for his son.  He was miffed but 
not surprised that Nick didn’t return his call regarding Thanksgiving dinner.  
Mostly, though, he was worried that something happened to Nicholas.  Lately, his 
son had developed the habit of disappearing during the weekends.  Burton hoped 
Nick just spent the weekends at a girlfriend’s house and didn’t want to tell his 
father about it.  But Burton thought something else was going on in Nick’s life. 
 He knew it in his gut. Nick was an aggressive, brilliant, talented and 
hard-working attorney.  He had a bright future in front of him but still 
something was missing.  Burton wished he knew what it was.  Burton saw Nick 
saunter in the office with a large Starbucks coffee in hand and unconsciously 
breathed a sigh of relief  
 
Nick knocked on Burton’s door.
 
“Come in, son,” replied Burton.
 
“Sorry, Dad, I didn’t return your call but I went to New York for the weekend 
and got back late last night,” said Nick.  “I’m sorry but I won’t be able to 
make it for Thanksgiving.  I already have plans.”  He waited to see if his 
father bought his lies.
 
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.  I was hoping…well, you know… that maybe we could 
spend the holiday together.  Well, maybe Christmas,” said Burton.
 
“Uh…maybe.  I need to finish drafting the Mason-Kenney contract.  I hope to 
finish it this morning, Dad.” 
 
“Okay.  You seem to be going to New York quite a lot lately.  Is there someone 
special there that you see?” asked Burton.
 
Nick blushed at this.  If only his father knew what he did do during the 
weekend.  Why did his father always ask him about his personal life?  Nick never 
asked Burton about his.
 
“Uh, yeah…I don’t know….maybe,” stammered Nick.  He kept it as vague as 
possible.  “I need to get going, Dad so I can finish that draft.” Nick walked 
out of Burton’s office.
 
Burton, disappointed that Nick decided to spend another Thanksgiving without 
him, picked up the phone to finalize his reservation at the club.  Burton and 
several of his friends had a standing reservation for the holidays at the club.  
This circle of friends consisted mainly of divorced fathers whose children spent 
the holiday with their mother, fathers whose married children visited their 
in-laws or fathers whose grown children had moved away from the Pittsburgh area 
and weren’t able to return home for Thanksgiving.  Burton tried to ignore the 
fact that Nick didn’t fit into any of these categories.  For now, it was enough 
that Nick moved back to Pittsburgh from New York and worked here.  At least 
Burton could see Nick during the work week.  
 
Nick returned to his office and finished up the final details of the draft of 
the Mason-Kenney contract.  Still hungover, Nick snuck a couple lines during 
lunch to help him through rest of the day. He brought the completed contract to 
his father to review after lunch.  
 
“Dad, here’s the Mason-Kenney contract,” said Nick rapidly when he entered 
Burton’s office.
 
“Oh, good.  Did you include a provision regarding stock options from the 
acquisition?” asked Burton.
 
“Yes,” replied Nick.
 
“What about…”
 
“It’s all there, Dad.  Just review it, okay?” Nick said tersely.  The 
after-effects of his powder lunch begin to kick-in.  One of the effects was the 
feeling that he was a couple paces ahead of everyone and it irritated him that 
no one kept up, especially his father.
 
“Are you okay, son?” asked Burton.
 
“What do you mean?” 
 
“You seem… jumpy,” said Burton, noting that his son spoke in that odd, rapid, 
staccato cadence which sometimes peppered his speech. 
 
“I drank too much coffee this morning,” said Nick, almost too quickly, “Just let 
me know if you want me to make any revisions to that.”  Nick pointed to the 
contract he gave his father and left Burton’s office. 
 
 Typically, the week of Thanksgiving was a slow week work-wise.  There were few 
client meetings scheduled and few deadlines to be met during this week.  Nick 
took advantage of this time to catch-up on some much needed administrative work, 
including figuring out his billable hours.  Associates at the firm were expected 
to bill at least 2,040 hours in a year, which equated to the attorneys working 
at least 60 hours in a week to bill 40 hours. He pulled up the Excel spreadsheet 
in which he tracked his hours and was shocked to learn that he fell behind in 
his billable hours from the schedule he planned at the beginning of the year.  
He was still on track to meet the 2040 mandate but he wanted to bill at least 
2080 hours for the year.  He wasn’t far enough behind so that the partners would 
notice his lapse but one: his father.   He was surprised that Burton hadn’t 
called him on this yet.  For the past two years, Nick billed the most hours in 
the firm.  He wanted it to stay that way.  Billing ten additional hours in the 
month of December was going to be hard.  Historically, F&A’s direct labor rate 
always lagged in that month. There were too many client functions and parties in 
December to get any real work done.  With less available billable hours in 
December, Nick had another reason to hate the holidays.  
 
Nick consulted this spreadsheet all the time; he didn’t understand why he didn’t 
notice this earlier.  He began remembering the days he would come in late for 
work because he was hung-over from the previous evening, the early evenings he 
would sneak a couple lines of coke to give him enough energy to work far into 
the night only to find he needed to redo half of his work the next morning, and 
the weekends spent partying instead of working at the office.  He realized that 
these instances happened more and more recently and added up.  He did not have 
control.
 
Having everything under control was a big issue for Nick.  As long as he made 
the grade, he could do anything he wanted.  Prep school taught him that.  No one 
cared what he did as long as he was the top student in school.  His stellar 
grades gave him relative freedom in a school that practically regulated what 
time students pissed.  Later, becoming the top billing attorney in the firm gave 
him freedom for his extracurricular activities.  No one cared what he did or how 
he did it as long as the client was happy and he made money for the firm.  Nick 
balanced his personal scales of justice so precariously one misstep could tip 
his scale.  Nick needed to ensure that his balance does not tip.
 
Wanting to compare his billable hours to the other associates, Nick used his 
father’s user ID and password to log into the firm’s accounting system.  Long 
ago, Nick easily figured out Burton’s password and found it incredible that his 
father never changed his password.  After querying the system, Nick relaxed.  
The report revealed that Nick still was the top biller of firm but not by much.  
Jake Straka, another associate, was just a few hours behind him.  All the 
associates’ hours were down slightly from 1999, the height of the dot com boom.  

 
~*~
 
Thanksgiving morning Nick got up, went to the gym, and returned to his apartment 
rejuvenated.  He purposely worked late the night before so he wouldn’t be 
tempted to go out Wednesday evening.   Realizing that Thursday provided an 
excellent opportunity to get a jump on his competitors, Nick wanted to work all 
day.  
 
Nick worked at home because he didn’t want to get caught by his father in the 
office after his lie about his Thanksgiving plans. The sun had long gone down by 
the time Nick finished working on a complicated union contract for Allegheny 
Manufacturing Company.  He needed a break.  He rubbed his bleary eyes, snapped 
his laptop shut and called the Chinese restaurant around the corner for some 
takeout.   They were closed.  He realized that nothing was going to be open 
today.  That’s the problem with Thanksgiving, he thought, everyone celebrates 
it.  At least at Christmas, the movies and Chinese restaurants were open.  
 
Conceding to the one Thanksgiving tradition he still followed and in honor of 
his mother, Nick walked to his bookcase and picked up a book of Robert Frost 
poems.  The book fell open to a well worn and dog-eared page. Just as his mother 
read “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” before every Thanksgiving dinner, he 
read it while he heated up some tomato soup in the microwave.  His mother loved 
this poem but she would never say why it meant so much to her only that he 
should find his own interpretation.  The only hint she gave was on her last 
Thanksgiving when she asked Nick to read it to her.  “It’s about choosing life 
and not death, remember that,” she said.  
 
Death became a reality for Nick that Thanksgiving.  He had been banished to his 
father’s house while his mother went through chemotherapy and had not seen his 
mother for weeks.  He half-expected his mother to be sitting-up in her bed, 
perhaps reading a book, and joking that she felt like she was a princess for a 
day because everyone waited on her hand and foot – as if she were just 
recovering from the flu.  Too weak to sit-up for long periods, her face pale, 
her hair unkempt and loosely pulled back, and thinner than the last time Nick 
saw her, she no longer resembled the mother Nick knew.  She managed a weak smile 
when she saw Nick. A storm of emotion surged through Nick.  His anger towards 
his mother during his forced exile quickly dissipated.  He didn’t speak for fear 
if he opened his mouth, he would start crying. He felt his father’s heavy hand 
squeeze his shoulder.  For once, Nick didn’t reject his father’s touch.  
Grabbing his mother’s hand and holding it tight, Nick tried to will his 
vitality, and his father’s strength, to his mother to fight the cancer ravaging 
her body, greedily stealing her life cell by cell.  From father to son to 
mother, this broken family, united for a brief moment, became a bastion in a 
lopsided battle.  The next day, he and his father moved back into the house on 
Parker Street and stayed until her death a couple months later.
 
Restlessness settled in Nick after he ate.  He watched some football on TV but 
could only handle so much of the stocky ex-jocks-turned-TV analysts joking about 
their gluttonous Thanksgiving.  He turned off the TV and flipped on the radio 
and found the over-analyzed reporting on the history of Thanksgiving on NPR 
wasn’t helping either.  He switched the station but couldn’t find any music to 
soothe his mood.  He picked up a law journal to read but the quiet and stillness 
of his apartment began closing in on him.  
  
The promise he made to himself to stay in and work during Thanksgiving proved 
more difficult than he imagined.  His urge to go out was like an itch in the 
middle of his back.  Nothing he did in his apartment to amuse himself gave him 
the reach to scratch it. He wished he would have made plans to get out of town 
for Thanksgiving or wondered if he should have spent the day with his father.  
Anything was better than this.  He paced the apartment looking for something to 
occupy his time but his home was just a place to sleep and eat.  It was not set 
up to do much living in it.   
 
His cell phone rang.  Nick picked it up and looked at the Caller ID before 
answering. It was Colin Bennett, an acquaintance of sorts, but mostly he was 
Nick’s drug supplier.
 
“Fallin, why aren’t you here giving thanks?” asked Colin.
 
“Giving thanks for what?” Nick asked.  A phone call from Colin was not going to 
help his resolve to stay in. 
 
“For life, dimwit… for a bounty of blow, booze, and boobs.  A regular cornucopia 
of fun,” replied Colin.  Nick heard laughter and music in the background.  
 
“I have to work tomorrow,” Nick said, knowing it was a weak argument given his 
past behavior.  
 
“Aww…come on, Fallin, I saw you last Sunday.  You didn’t seem to care that you 
had to work on Monday. Work’s not an excuse.  I’ve seen you partying hard late 
one night and looking spiffy for work the next day.  You’re a wunderkind, 
Fallin,” said Colin.  
 
“Where’s here anyway?” asked Nick. His wont to use cocaine, and the 
companionship it provided, was pulling him from the quiet and loneliness of his 
solitude into the craziness of the night.  He checked his wallet to see how much 
cash he had.  Two hundred dollars and some change.  It should be enough for 
tonight.  He wanted to get back early anyway.
 
“My loft,” said Colin.  “By the way, it’s about time you host a party.  Maybe 
next week?  A holiday party, say.”
 
“We’ll see,” said Nick, looking around his quiet apartment imagining it full of 
people…full of life.  He told Colin he’d be at his loft in a half hour and hung 
up the phone.  Almost giddy from the thought of partying tonight, he made a 
bargain with himself:    He won’t overdo it, just a little drinking, maybe a 
little coke, and he’ll be home and in bed by 11 p.m.  Nick grabbed his keys and 
left.  He had miles to go before he sleeps.