Читать книгу Bulleit Proof - Tom Bulleit - Страница 14

1969

BACK IN THE WORLD.

That’s what we call our return.

Few of us call it coming home.

We depart for Vietnam as one person and come back another. Many of us are unrecognizable even to ourselves.

We’ve changed—emotionally, spiritually, physically. We return with broken bodies, smashed spirits, shattered hearts, confused minds. We escape the battlefields of Vietnam, eluding the horror and chaos, only to land in new, unfamiliar chaos, an internal war—back in the world—a world we thought we knew.

For me, to be honest, the military worked. If you could remove the tragedy of war—of course you can’t; but if you could—what remains is a gift. The military changed my life, for the better. I learned discipline, responsibility, and self-confidence. Some of this the military literally drills into you. I left Kentucky a married boy stumbling through life, lacking focus and any real conviction, but having made a promise. I have a goal, vowed to keep my promise, but I don’t have an actual plan. I come back into the world a married man with relentless focus. I feel as if I’m walking through life with a sandstone draped around my neck, a stone of ambition. I am driven, motivated, impatient, uncertain, and scared. In other words, I have matured.

Fear drives me. I fear that I will fail to make a living, that I will struggle to find my place in the “real world,” and most of all, that I will disappoint my parents, especially my father. And I fear that I won’t keep my promise. That fear drives me most of all.

My parents have aged. My mother moves slower and seems quieter, her faced furrowed with lines caused by worry. It’s not my going to Vietnam that has done her in, I realize. It’s the waiting, the daily terror of receiving another telegram, this one about her son, about me. My father, always a recalcitrant man, appears subdued, bordering on distant. A lifetime smoker and drinker, he has become even quieter and smokes and drinks even more. This is how he dulls his pain, by chain-smoking, sipping from his shot glass or beer bottle, shutting himself off from his own terrors, his own memories.

So, motivated by fear, I enter the Louis D. Brandeis School of Law at the University of Louisville determined to fulfill the promise I made to my father. I leave nothing to chance. I absolutely attack my courses. I become a warrior in the classroom and a fiend in the library. Some nights I close the place, along with the janitor. I don’t want to succeed. I want to excel. I achieved outstanding grades in high school, followed that by tanking in college, setting records for futility, except for becoming a standout at every party, now, I see, a dubious distinction. I declare myself retired from that life. Back in the world, I’m a different person. I am a law student, a married man, and I will become a lawyer.

In 1971, I finished law school near the top of my class and was named associate editor of the Law Review. I pass the Kentucky bar and receive a job offer with the Honors Program of the Office of Chief Counsel, Internal Revenue Service, a jaw-breaking title that means I’ll be moving to Washington, D.C., as a lawyer for the IRS. My mother cries when I tell her, my father nods stoically, which I interpret as a gesture of pride, or perhaps relief. Stephanie and I pack all of our belongings into our car, I say goodbye to my parents, and we move east, settling in Reston, Virginia, a quiet suburb, about an hour and half commute from the District. Driving from Louisville to D.C., Stephanie dozing, her head resting against the passenger-side window, a stunning revelation pulsates through my brain—

I’ve completed my undergraduate education.

I’ve served in the military.

I’ve become a lawyer.

I have fulfilled my promise to my father.

I’m now free to unearth Augustus’s family recipe and become a distiller.

Two questions.

How?

And—

When?

* * *

I see me walking into my office in the heart of D.C. I once again wear a uniform—crisply pressed dark suit, subtle pinstripe shirt, conservative tie, short haircut, gripping my leather briefcase. I look like a lawyer. Hell, I could be an advertisement for a lawyer.

I represent the IRS. I represent the Establishment. I am the Establishment. But in a bigger newsflash, at least to me, I love it. I love the law and I love being a lawyer. An early riser, I’m always among the first to arrive in the office and almost always the last to leave. I put in long hours, not only because I have a killer commute and I want to wait until traffic subsides before I drive the 90 minutes home to Virginia, but I enjoy being there. I love to work. Work, I find, grounds me, energizes me. Plus, I like grappling with the minutia, the ambiguity, the complexity of tax law. I get lost in it. I’m not bored for a second. In fact, the law turns me on, intellectually.

But all around me, as I settle into the law, and lawyering, and embrace my role in the Establishment, I see a world that’s teetering on the edge of turmoil. It’s 1972 and one day in early spring, 15,000 protestors convene in Washington, not far from my office, to protest the Vietnam War, one of dozens of protests that happen weekly across the country. At year’s end, police arrest five men for burglarizing the Democratic National Committee at the Watergate Hotel. Then a series of earth-shattering events practically careen into each other over a short three-year time frame from 1972 to 1975—the Supreme Court passes Roe v. Wade, the Watergate Hearings begin, the House votes to impeach President Richard M. Nixon, Nixon resigns the presidency, the Vietnam War ends, Saturday Night Live begins.

In the midst of all this, in 1974, Stephanie gives birth to our daughter, Anne Hollister Bulleit. We call her Hollis, and I don’t know if it’s the era she’s born into or her independent spirit, but I soon identify her as a child of strong will and opinion, and uncommon athletic ability. I’ll soon recognize her gift for creativity. We connect, Hollis and I, from her first breath.

* * *

Shortly after Hollis arrives, I decide that one law degree isn’t enough so I enroll in Georgetown Law School to earn a Masters of Law in Taxation. I continue to work fulltime, attending classes at night and on weekends. I study whenever I can find a spare half hour. I relegate sleep to the backburner, deciding it’s highly overrated. I prosper academically and two years of mind-numbing very late nights and extremely early mornings, in 1976, Georgetown awards me an LL.M degree.

* * *

I love the law, love being a lawyer, but I’m restless, slightly homesick, and itching to be my own boss. Over what will become a year of conversation and negotiation, again driven by fear, this time the fear of the unknown, I leave the security of the Office of Chief Counsel in Washington, pack up Stephanie and Hollis, and move to Lexington, Kentucky, where with two close friends I form the law firm of Arnold, Bulleit, and Kinkead.

Time flies, a year turns into two, into three, the calendar closes out the decade, and we enter the Eighties. Our little boutique law firm expands. What I call our start-up expands from a couple of offices and a reception area, to an entire floor, to taking over the top two floors of our building. We add a dozen or so lawyers and, over time, I find myself with top billing. Each of us specializes. Shelby Kinkead, a descendant of the first governor of Kentucky, over six feet tall, a charming and elegant man, serves as our general counsel and litigator. I, less tall, yet dapper, write contracts. As a point of information, the difference between elegant and dapper is height. Shelby and I share the work—long hours—and before I know it, checks roll in, we cash them, and my fear of failing to make a living as a lawyer on my own eases. At least to a degree. I always live with a level of fear gnawing at me, driving me. Fear is my motor. The truth is, I enjoy the hell out of being a lawyer.

Yes, I enjoy it. While I spend a good deal of time holed up in my office either writing or reading contracts, I love interacting with my partners, our clients, and even the folks on the opposite side. Business—all business, I believe—is personal. So you might as well have fun. And we do. We interact with people, we make our business personal, we socialize, we enjoy dining together, drinking together, and, yes, we have a hell of a good time.

I remember one incident that still makes me laugh. One day, Shelby and I get a frantic phone call in the office. We’re being summoned to Hazard, Kentucky—yes, Hazard, a real name—to have an emergency meeting with some clients, coal miners.

“Meet us at the community center on Route 15,” the spokesman says, his voice tinged with anxiety.

“Why there?” I say.

“We got us a situation. Terrible. Things are escalating out of control. Guys are very angry, extremely agitated. They could get violent.”

“Shelby, you’ve got this, don’t you?” I say.

Shelby, tall and elegant, and I, less tall and moderately dapper, head over toward Hazard to the location of a series of coal tipples, stations on the side of the road which feed raw coal onto a conveyer belt moving the coal into a device that crushes the coal and pours it into a truck. A trucker—usually an individual contractor—hauls the coal up to Cincinnati to sell his payload as stoker coal. I know of dozens of tipples dotted all over Kentucky. During the coal boom, we’d often take a helicopter to visit our clients. Efficient and fast. We could cover 100 miles in no time. We hired pilots who’d flown helicopters in Vietnam, mavericks. Some might call them crazy. They’d pick us up, and even if I offered a map and directions, they’d ignore that and follow the interstate, fly right over the top of traffic, practically buzzing the cars. The pilots were aces when it came to flying a helicopter, but had no idea how to navigate the damn thing.

“There are quicker ways to go,” I’d say, folding up my map.

“Yeah,” the pilot would say, “but then I wouldn’t know where we were.”

One time, a pilot looks at me after I question his navigational choices and says, “You’re a military guy. I go by I.F.R. You know what that stands for, right?”

“Instrument Flight Rules.”

“Nope. I Fly Roads.”

I spend way more time in helicopters practicing law than I ever did in Vietnam.

This day, because of the obvious urgency, Shelby and I have no time to locate a helicopter, so we drive to Hazard. We arrive at the community center and go into the main meeting room, which we find packed with anxious and angry coal miners.

“What’s going on?” Shelby asks.

The miner we spoke to steps forward. “A couple miles down the road, at the coal tipple, a whole bunch of truckers has gathered up. They tossed about 30 tires into a pile in the middle of the road and set the pile on fire.”

“Wonderful,” I say.

“Now they’re shooting into the tires and they’re drinking.”

“It gets even better,” I say.

“They’re not moving. Say they’re staying put. Until we give them more money.”

“So, what, they’re on strike?” Shelby asks.

“At least,” I say.

“You’re our lawyers,” the spokesman says. “You represent us.”

Shelby and I look at each other. I grin at the spokesman.

“Well, yes,” I say, “but you guys seem to have this under control.”

“Listen,” the spokesman says, ignoring me. “I want you all to go down there and tell those truckers we’re not giving them any more damn money. Not a penny more. You go down there and tell them.”

“Let me get this straight,” Shelby says. “These truckers have set a pile of tires on fire, they’re blocking the road, they’re drinking, they’re shooting into burning tires, and you want us to tell them you’re not giving them any more money?”

“Yep.”

“Let’s go with Plan B.”

I don’t want to crack up in front of our agitated clients, but I can’t help myself. I smother my laugh with a fake coughing fit and a fist over my mouth.

“What’s Plan B?” the spokesman yells at our backs as Shelby steers me toward the door.

“Working on it,” Shelby says.

Shelby devises Plan B on the way back to the office. He drops me off and goes into Federal Court, where he gets an injunction against the truckers because they are blocking the highway. Highway Patrol shows up, waves the court document, and eventually, the truckers move off the road.

I didn’t put this in the Bulleit Points, but I should have.

Always have a Plan B.

Especially when Plan A involves a raging fire, firearms, and alcohol.