Tee

Chapter 1 Once high-powered attorney who falls on hard times after an office shooting

Chapter One
The framed photograph on the nightstand captures a lie—three smiling faces arranged to resemble happiness. In the mirror across the bedroom, Thibaut "Tee" Falgout fastens the buttons of a silk shirt that costs more than most people earn in a week. The fabric whispers against his skin, Italian, custom-tailored to fit his frame perfectly. At forty-two, he maintains the physique of a man who can afford both a personal trainer and the time to use one. Three mornings a week at the country club gym< Never misses.
He checks his reflection one last time, then leans down and kisses his sleeping wife, Lauren, on the cheek. She snores softly, her breathing heavy and uneven. The smell of alcohol rises from her—vodka, he thinks, though it could be gin. It's always something clear, something she thinks he won't notice on her breath. Her face is peaceful in sleep in a way it never is when she's awake.
He slips out quietly, a departure perfected over two decades of marriage.
The hallway stretches before him, lined with family portraits and expensive art that Lauren selected. He barely notices them anymore—they're just part of the scenery of his life, like the crown molding and the imported marble floors.
In the kitchen, his eighteen-year-old daughter Kris hunches over a bowl of cereal, the newspaper spread before her like a barrier. The sports section, he notices. She's always been more interested in the Saints' offensive line than anything happening in her own life. She doesn't glance up.
"Morning," Tee says, pouring himself coffee from the expensive Italian espresso machine that Lauren insisted they needed. The smell fills the kitchen—dark roast, imported beans, nothing but the best.
Silence. Kris flips a page.
His Cajun accent thickens with irritation, the way it always does when he's annoyed. "Y’all know, in polite society, when someone says hello, y’all supposed to say it back."
Kris huffs. She grabs her bowl, milk sloshing dangerously close to the rim, and leaves the room without a word, her footsteps echoing on the floor, fading toward her bedroom.
"Y’all have a wonderful day too," he mutters to the empty kitchen. The coffee tastes bitter.
Tee rinses his cup in the sink, one of the few domestic tasks he ever performs, then checks his diamond-encrusted Rolex watch, a bonus for the Decker settlement. Already running late, he grabs his leather briefcase and heads out the door.
Outside, the antebellum mansion rises behind him—all white columns and old money pretension. Lauren's family money, to be precise. The Dougets have owned this house for five generations, and she never lets him forget it. Built in 1847 on the profits of sugar and human misery, the kind of history polite society prefers not to discuss at dinner parties. The slaves' quarters are long gone, demolished in the 1920s and replaced with formal gardens, but the big house remains, a monument to wealth extracted from other people's labor. The morning sun glints off the second-story windows, and somewhere in the back garden, he can hear the landscaping crew already at work. They come twice a week, an army of men with leaf blowers and hedge trimmers, maintaining the illusion of effortless perfection.
The Mercedes SL-450 waits in the circular driveway, freshly washed and gleaming. The license plate reads "NOT POOR," a joke that seemed funnier when he ordered it six months ago. Now it just feels obvious. He slides behind the wheel, the leather seat conforming to his body, and guns the engine. The sound reverberates off the mansion's facade—pure power, barely contained.
He tears out of the driveway, the security gate swinging open automatically, recognizing his car, and then he's on the street, the mansion disappearing in his rearview mirror.
On the freeway, the traffic becomes an obstacle course. Tee weaves between cars at reckless speed, one hand on the wheel, the other punching speed dial. The city slides past—oak trees draped in Spanish moss, shotgun houses giving way to strip malls, the bayou visible in glimpses between buildings. He knows this route by heart and could drive it blindfolded. Home to office, office to home, with occasional detours to Dana's apartment in Metairie.
The phone rings twice before she answers.
"I'm not talking to you." Dana Thompson's voice comes through the speakers, sharp and young. Twenty-four, though she looks younger. Blonde, petite, with a combination of innocence and calculation in equal measure that Tee finds irresistible.
"Aw, Che'. Don't y’all be like that."
"You were supposed to come over last night." She's pouting. He hears it in her voice, can picture her lower lip pushing out in that way she does.
"Couldn't. Wife had people over. Important people." He swerves around a pickup truck going too slow in the left lane. Some idiot with Confederate flag bumper stickers. "The lieutenant governor and his wife. The DA. Half the city council. Had to be there."
"More important than me?"
Tee rolls his eyes. This conversation, again. They have it at least once a week, this same dance of reassurance and complaint. "No one's more important than y’all, Che."
"I wonder." A pause. "I sat all night waiting. I made dinner. That chicken thing you like."
"I'm sorry, baby. I really am."
"I wonder," she says again, her voice smaller now.
"Tell y’all what—I'll make it up to y’all. Dinner tonight. My treat. Anywhere y’all want."
"What about your wife?" The pout is gone now, replaced by something harder. Dana knows how to negotiate.
"She's got one of those cause things. Save the nutria rat or something…. Come on, y’all can even pick the place."
"Fontaine's." She says it immediately, like she's been waiting for the opportunity.
Tee’s grip tightens on the wheel. Fontaine's is in the French Quarter, on Royal Street. Everyone goes to Fontaine's. Everyone who matters, everyone who knows everyone else. "No, Che'. Y’all know I can't be seen in town. Pick something in Metairie or…”
"Fontaine's."
"Can't y’all just…”
"Fontaine's." Firmer now. She's not budging.
Tee sighs, defeated. This is what happens when you date someone young enough to think discretion is negotiable. "Okay. Fontaine's. Eight o'clock. Get a table in back."
"I'll wear that black dress you like." Her voice soft now, victorious.
He ends the call and mutters, "Gold digger with no sense of direction." But even as he says it, he's already thinking about that dress, about the way it clings to her body, about the look on her face when he gives her the necklace he's been hiding in his desk drawer. Three thousand dollars at that boutique on Magazine Street. She'll love it.
The Mercedes flies past a billboard on the right where the face of Ashley Reeves stares out at traffic—blonde, thirty-two, her hair teased high in that way Southern women do for special occasions. Her smile is wide and white, frozen in time, and beneath it the words are printed in harsh red letters: "BRUTALLY MURDERED - AUGUST 8, 2007 BY HER HUSBAND BECKER REEVES. GOOD OLD BOY ORLEANS PARISH REFUSES TO PROSECUTE."
But Tee doesn't see this as the billboard disappears in his rearview mirror, another piece of someone else's tragedy that doesn't touch his world
As Tee exits the freeway, the law firm comes into view ahead, a sleek, modern building that stands out amid the older architecture around it. The parking spot reserved for "Thibaut 'Tee' Falgout" waits for him, prominently positioned near the entrance. He whips the Mercedes into it, cutting off a paralegal who was about to take the adjacent space. She glares at him. He pretends not to notice.
Above the building entrance, gold letters proclaim: "DOUGET, DOUGET AND FALGOUT - ATTORNEYS AT LAW." His name, last. Always last. The two Dougets—Lauren's father and uncle—come first, would always come first. Tee married into the firm the same way he married into the mansion, into the life he now leads. Sometimes he forgets there was ever a time before this, before the money and the prestige and the weight of expectation.
Tee breezes into a lobby gleaming with the kind of wealth that announces itself in leather furniture and polished marble. The air conditioning is aggressive, almost cold, fighting against the Louisiana heat that presses against the windows. The receptionist, -new girl, can't remember her name, smiles at him. He doesn't smile back.
On one of the couches sits Jim Roy Richardson, a man in his sixties whose fraying cuffs and scuffed work boots mark him distinctly out of place. He clutches a brown paper bag in both hands, like a lifeline. When he sees Tee, his face lights up.
Tee stops at his secretary's desk, where Debbie sits, heavily pregnant and looking more tired than usual. She's in her twenties, married to her high school sweetheart, expecting their first child.
She hands him his messages without a word. She's worked for Tee for three years now, knows his schedule better than he does, knows when to screen his calls and when to let them through.
"How about them Saints, Deb?" He grins at her, trying for casual camaraderie. "Didn't think it was humanly possible to blow a twenty-point lead in five minutes."
She looks up at him, an eyebrow raised. "You mean 'humanly'?"
"I was there. Trust me when I say inhumanely." He was there, in the company box seats, watching the fourth quarter collapse with increasing horror. Lost five hundred on the game. "Our defense couldn't stop a wheelchair convention."
"You have a visitor." She nods toward Jim Roy, who's now standing, straightening his jacket.
Tee glances over. Jim Roy's face is hopeful, eager, and pathetic all in one.
As Jim Roy steps forward, Tee grimaces and makes a quick beeline for his office, pretending he doesn't see Jim Roy's hand rising in greeting, doesn't hear his name being called.
The office door closes behind him with a solid thud.
Inside his ego fills the room—LSU memorabilia covering one entire wall, every animal head known to man staring down with glass eyes. A twelve-point buck he shot in Mississippi. A wild boar from a hunting trip in Texas on the Bush ranch. Framed newspaper clippings celebrating massive settlements: "$245.5 Million Verdict in Chemical Plant Explosion," "Local Attorney Secures Record Settlement in Decker Suit," "Falgout Wins Again." His father would be proud if he was still around. A roughneck from Thibodaux who worked the oil rigs and drank himself to death by fifty -two. Before seeing his son become somebody.
Behind his desk, on the credenza, sits a small statue of Priapus, the Greek god of fertility, anatomically correct and proudly so. His erect penis points toward the ceiling, nearly a foot long, grotesque and fascinating. It's a conversation piece, something to make clients uncomfortable or amused, depending on their sensibilities. Tee bought it at an estate sale in the Garden District for two hundred grand. Thought it was hilarious. Lauren refuses to enter his office because of it. Purpose served.
He settles into his leather chair—ergonomic, expensive, custom-ordered—and flips through his messages. Calls to return, appointments to confirm, the usual Monday morning pile of administrative detritus. Most are routine. A few require his attention. And then—
His eyes light up.
"Hot damn!"
The door opens. Debbie enters with his espresso in a small porcelain cup, his mail sorted by importance, and the Wall Street Journal folded precisely the way he likes it.
“Good news.” She says, setting the coffee down.
"Next best thing to sex—Sid Cohen called." Tee waves the message slip at her. "Atlantic Chemical wants to settle. Thirty and a half mil. Bam. In the bank."
Thirty and a half million. The firm's cut will be forty percent, minus expenses. His bonus will come in at about one point three million, give or take. Not bad for six months of work, for depositions, negotiations, and making Atlantic Chemical's lawyers squirm.
"Maybe now's a good time to ask for that raise?" Debbie touches her swollen belly.
He looks at her, really looks at her for the first time this morning. She's enormous, ready to pop. Her ankles are swollen, he notices. She's been standing too much.
"Any day now, huh?"
"If by 'any day' you mean 'still a month to go,' then yes." She shifts her weight, one hand on her lower back. "Wish it were any day, though."
"Who'd you get to cover?" He sips the espresso. Perfect temperature, perfect strength. Debbie knows how he likes it.
"Cindy Garrett."
Tee rolls his eyes so hard it almost hurts. Cindy Garrett, the receptionist's cousin or something, a girl so spectacularly stupid that she makes rocks look like Rhodes Scholars.
"She's not that bad," Debbie says, lacking conviction.
"You're exaggerating."
"She thought France was in Canada." He looks up from his messages. "I heard her tell someone on the phone that France was in Canada. Not French Canada. France. The actual country."
Debbie sighs. "I know, but she needs the work and…
"Y’all too nice for your own good. Tee says, rising from his desk and going to the door.
He cracks the it open and peers out at the lobby. Jim Roy is still there, sitting now, the paper bag in his lap. Waiting with absolute certainty that Tee Falgout can fix everything. That Tee can make someone pay for the cancer that took his wife, for the medical bills that bankrupted him, for the insurance company that denied every claim.
"Every Monday," Tee says.
"What?"
"Jim fucking Roy Richardson. Every Monday, like clockwork. Y’all could set your watch by him."
Debbie joins him at the door. “Want me to call security?"
"I don't know." He actually doesn’t. Part of him admires Jim Roy's determination, his refusal to accept that some things can't be fixed. The bigger part is just annoyed.
"I feel sorry for him." Debbie's voice is soft.
"Sorry?" Tee looks at her incredulously.
"His wife died of cancer. He lost everything… their house, their savings, everything. Then she dies. He's living in a trailer park now, for Christ's sake," Debbie says.
“Living in a trailer park isn’t that bad, Che.” Tee chuckles. “It’s like having a front-row seat to a reality show, except the drama is free and the popcorn and beer is BYOB
Debbie glares at him. "Jesus Christ, am I the only one with a compassionate bone in their body around here?"
"Y’alls fervent, misguided sense of compassion is stunning. But there's no case." Tee lets the door close. "I've looked at it six ways from Sunday. There's nothing there. No malpractice, no negligence. She got cancer. She died. It's tragic, but it's not actionable."
"You mean no money." Debbie's voice has an edge now.
"That kind of thinking won't help y’all get that raise." He returns to his desk, waves the Journal at her. "This is a business, Deb. We're not a charity. We take cases we can win, cases that pay. That's how it works."
"I know how it works."
"What do y’all think Jim Roy's got in that bag? Opossum or armadillo?" He's trying to lighten the mood, but Debbie doesn't smile.
"My imaginary friend says you need a therapist."
"Y’all imaginary friend sounds like my wife." He settles back into his chair. "Get rid of him."
Tee watches Debbie start toward the door, her movement slow and awkward. The baby is sitting low, he can tell. Soon she'll be gone for six weeks, maybe eight, and he'll be stuck with Cindy Garrett and her confusion about basic geography.
"Quietly," he adds pointedly.
She pauses at the door. "Don't forget—partner meeting at two."
He opens his mouth to object.
"Your father-in-law says you miss one more, you'll be sorting mail."
The threat lands. Claude Douget doesn't make empty threats. The old bastard would do it, too, would humiliate Tee in front of the entire firm just to make a point. Family or not, Tee is still the outsider who married in, still the dirt-poor Cajun kid from Thibodaux who got his darling daughter Lauren pregnant in college. Not that Tee particularly cares. The old man can threaten all he wants, but Tee brings in more money than anyone else at the firm. They need him more than he needs them.
"Never marry for money, Che… Y’all can borrow it cheaper."
As Debbie exits through the door, Tee props his feet on the desk, opens the Journal, and sips his espresso. The morning has settled into its usual rhythm. Outside his window, the city goes about its business. Cars honk. A siren wails in the distance. Somewhere, a jackhammer pounds concrete.
He reads about the Federal Reserve, about interest rates, and inflation. Skims an article about tech stocks. Checks the price of oil. His portfolio is definitely up. He should call his broker, maybe move some money around.
The espresso is cooling. He takes another sip.
Then the scream.
Not surprise.
Not shock.
Terror.
"No... NO!!!"
It’s Debbie.
Gunfire explodes.
The sound is monstrous—too loud, too close. One shot, then another. The air seems to buckle with the rapid succession of blasts that don't stop
Tee crashes to the floor, his body moving before his brain catches up. The espresso cup shatters on the tile. The Journal scatters in white pages. His chair spins, empty.
More screams. People crying out, begging, breaking. He can hear them through the door, through the walls, everywhere.
Tee crawls toward the door, the carpet burning his palms. His heart slamming so hard it hurts. His breath, short, sharp, in gasps.
He reaches up, fumbles for the lock. His fingers find it. Turn it. The deadbolt slides home with a solid click.
Another burst of gunfire. Closer.
Someone slams into the door.
“Please!” Debbie screams. “Tee—please!” She’s right outside the door.
Tee's hand inches for the lock.
His fingers hover there, touching the cool metal.
Debbie pounds harder. "Tee! Please!"
The baby. She's pregnant. The baby.
His hand trembles.
Another scream. Closer. A man's voice, cut short.
More gunfire.
Tee’s hand drop.
Just… drops.
The pounding continues. Harder now. Wild.
“Tee! Oh God…”
The words dissolve into screams. The sound of people dying just beyond the door, just feet away.
Then—nothing.
Silence falls like a curtain, broken only by the sound of his labored breathing, loud, fast.
The doorknob jiggles.
Once.
Twice.
Harder.
Eyes wide, Tee scrambles across the room, papers scattering under his hands. Frantic. Graceless. He bangs his head hard on the desk leg. Barely feels it. Wedges himself under his desk. Pulls his knees tightly to his chest, then covers his ears with both hands, squeezing, trying to block out the world.
The doorknob stops.
Footsteps.
Moving away.
A single gunshot.
Then quiet.
Real quiet.
Tee presses his hands over his ears, breath coming in thin, broken gasps, surrounded by trophies, headlines, and mounted dead things.
He waits.