The Short Life of Shiloh Campfield

A Short Story by Stacee Ann Harris

            We all looked alike. Each and every one of us. Even the women, the few that there were, looked like feminized versions of the men. Suits were either dark gray or lighter dark gray, occasionally a pinstripe but only on a new guy who didn't know any better yet. Ties provided a small splash of color, though only maroon, blue, or gold, never purple or red, and were held in place by a small gold cross-shaped tie tack. Hair was coiffed short (though it was recommended that the women keep theirs long) and faces were cleanly shaven, no goatees, soul-patches, or a day's worth of stubble. In the gray-scale world of Hearn Upson, personality was to be left at home or locked in the trunk of one's late model Made in the USA vehicle.

            On this particular day, though in reality it was no different than most other days except for one small exception, we gathered in the large conference room. Partners at the oblong, heavy dark walnut table and the underlings – junior partners, wanna-be junior partners, never-gonna-be-partners, and a stray paralegal or two - took standing room only, gathering in the space behind and between. Interns and legal secretaries passed by the glass wall with looks of longing and relief. No one in the room really wanted to be in the room. At least I didn't.

            That's me leaning in the corner. Gray Armani suit, small tidbit of maroon and gold in my John Bartlett tie, black Dolci & Gabbana shoes. No, other corner. That's Clark Mayfield, Yale Law, criminal litigation specialist, super fast-track junior partner, and Old Man Hearn's son-in-law. Over here. There you go. Small gold cross on my lapel, Harvard Law, and senior associate on the constitutional law team.

            We're all waiting on The Man Himself. Jimmy St. James Ministries and the Coalition for Christ are our biggest clients. Today, Jimmy St. James will be in the office for his quarterly meeting. Truth be told, he has been around a bit more than usual.  The CFC has gotten itself in a legal bind. Two of its officers were allegedly caught with an underage girl. The video went viral on You Tube and our criminal litigation team swung into action. Previously my team was constantly in the spotlight.  We were working on a First Amendment case – Dane County ISD PTA v. the Coalition for Christ. Think public schools, the Christian Right, and the separation of church and state and you've got the gist of it.

            Now, though, Mayfield and his criminal team are getting all the attention. If they don't get this thing out of the media, my case will be screwed and with it my chance at a partnership. I've been at Hearn Upson nine years. At ten years, if I'm not knocking on partner, I may as well find a new firm and start over. It's up or out here. Up or out. You either play the game and win or you find a new game. I've played the game and played it well, but I need this case to put me over the top.

            “Bro, how long do we have to wait for this guy?” I heard a voice whisper.

            Jason Hillson, a first year associate on my team fresh off a stint with the Navy's JAG Corps, sidled up next to me in my corner. He looked like the rest of us, says he traded one uniform for another, but he still hadn't absorbed the not-so-subtle nuances of big time law.

            “As long as it takes.”

            It was then that I saw him. The glass door opened and two men slid into the room. They joined Mayfield in his corner of the room. Mayfield shook hands with both and the three exchanged a small, quiet laugh. One of the men was Charles Weston, III. We started at the firm together. Penn Law. Total kiss-ass. The other, though, had to be new to the firm. I'd never seen him here before.

            Jason was going on about Navy's chances at beating Army this weekend in lacrosse. I cut him off mid-sentence.

            “Jay, who's that guy?” I kept my voice low. We all did.

            “Huh? Which one?”

            “There with Mayfield. Not Charlie, the other guy?”

            “Oh yeah. Dalton. Dalton... Esk...Eskew. I think. Met him in the locker room at the gym this morning.”

            “Hmm... I swear I know him. Maybe not. The name doesn't fit.”

            “West Coast guy. Stanford.”

            “Not Ivy. Everyone here is...”

            Just then The Man Himself entered the room. He led us in prayer and we commenced the meeting.

            I have a near eidetic memory so not remembering something bothers me. I was still contemplating the new guy out of the corner of my eye when the attention of the entire room turned to me.

            “Lindshire?” It was Mr. Upson's voice.

            “Sir?” My reverie broken, I spoke.

            “Brasher, care to give us an update on your case?”

            “Uh... Yes, Sir.”

            It was an honor for an associate to be called on in such an important meeting. Usually only the partners spoke, but I knew the case better than anyone involved and Upson knew that. Unfortunately, the arrival of this Dalton Eskew threw me off my game. I stammered slightly before regaining my composure.

            In the back on my mind, I was still thinking. I know that guy. I know that guy. We looked to be about the same age. It wasn't law school. I was Harvard. He was Stanford. Dalton. I didn't remember ever knowing a Dalton. There was an Eskew at Dartmouth but he was black. This guy was blonde. Maybe he'd made a big splash with the media in some case out West, maybe that's where I recognized him from, but the name just didn't fit. Something was off.

            The meeting broke. The day went on. The sun set. The clock on my desk said 9:00. Chris would have dinner waiting for me. The kids would be in bed. I looked at the pictures on my desk. At Hearn Upson personality was kept in check but we were encouraged to show small tokens of our family life. Zander in his tee-ball uniform cheesing the the camera holding his brother, Evan's hand. I hated having to miss so much of their young lives, after everything Chris and I went through to have them. I sighed. This was the life I'd wanted. I was living the dream. I shut off the light and closed my office door.

            A gray sleeved arm jutted through the elevator door. The door opened. It was him. Dalton Eskew. Now up close, I was ever more certain that I knew him from somewhere. He made eye contact and extended his hand. In the ultra-competitive world of Hearn Upson, this wasn't common practice. No one paid much attention to anyone, especially not at the end of a long day in the elevator. Clearly he wasn't like everyone else. He soon would be.

            “Saw you at the the meeting today. Brasher, I take it? I'm Dalton Eskew, criminal litigation.”

            I tried to stay even.

            “Oh, yes.” I shook his hand. “Brasher Lindshire. Con law.”

            He smiled. I looked away. The elevator door opened onto the parking garage. We exited and went opposite directions.

            As I clicked the remote entry on my Cadillac STS, it hit me. I knew exactly who Dalton Eskew was. At least I thought I did. I had to get home.

~

            “Maybe it's not him. There are all kinds of explanations.” Chris, forever rational.

            “For this?” I held up an old DVD that I'd dug out of a dusty box in the attic. We'd put our collection away shortly before Zander was born. “Name one.'

            “Doppelganger. Twin brother. That's two.”

            I stared back incredulously. “Chris, I swear it's him. That's Dalton Eskew.”

            “Let me get this straight, Brasher. You think the new guy at your law firm, at your highly Christian law firm, is Shiloh Campfield? The Shiloh Campfield?

            That was exactly what I was saying. I knew that I knew him from somewhere. Suddenly in the elevator something in his smile reminded me. I couldn't recall the name until I pulled out the DVD, but once I put the name with the face I was certain. Dalton Eskew was Shiloh Campfield, porn star. And not just any porn star. In the late 90s and early 2000s, Shiloh Campfield was the hottest commodity in the gay-porn. And one of mine and Chris' favorites.

            I lifted a stack of DVD's out of the box and held them up to Chris one by one. “Dalton. Shiloh. Shiloh. Dalton. It's him.”

            “Seriously, he could have a twin. What if Shiloh Campfield is, was Dalton's identical twin brother? What if while Dalton was slaving away in law school his brother was taking the gay-porn business by storm?”

            “Or what if Dalton took the gay-porn business by storm so he could afford law school?”

            Chris didn't seem convinced.

            “Christopher, just imagine if I'm right. Hearn Upson has two very high profile cases involving Jimmy St. John and the CFC going right now. Dalton Eskew will be on the criminal defense team. Shiloh Campfield will be on the criminal defense team. If I recognized him, someone else might. Someone on the other side. They could use that against us.”

            The reality of the situation was a scary one. Not only was Hearn Upson steadfastly Christian, but the firm's livelihood depended on the loyalty of our biggest client. Like it or not, we represented one of the most powerful Christian fundamentalist organizations in the country. Jimmy St. John and the Coalition for Christ brought in over seventy percent of the firm's revenue over the past five years.   Losing them could mean the death of the firm. Employing a gay-porn star would assuredly be a deal breaker.

            “What can you do about it? March into Old Man Hearn's office and tell him that his new criminal litigator used to do gay-porn? How are you going to do that without outing yourself and losing your career? Plus you don't even  know if it's him.”

            Chris was right. Outing Shiloh would mean outing myself. How could I explain how I knew about Shiloh without some suspicion splashing onto me? In the nine years I'd been with the firm, I had managed to keep my sexuality a secret. It wasn't easy. And I certainly didn't agree with their conservative version of Christianity, but they were a good firm that defended a lot of big name clients. They offered me a job right out of law school and I took it. I signed a morals clause and firmly closed the closet door. I couldn't risk coming out now. 

            “I'm one case away from being one case closer to making partner.”

            “I don't see how you can defend those assholes. And don't give me the line about everyone having a right to representation. Jimmy St. John has said time and time again that he hates fags. Brasher, we're fags.”

            I knew I was selling my soul. Chris didn't have to tell me that. Still, I felt the need to defend my firm.

            “What if I can find out for sure if he's Shiloh?” The plan came to me in a flash.

            “How are you going to do that? You can't just ask him the next time you're in the elevator together.”

            “Remember the birthmark?”

            Shiloh Campfield had a birth mark on his left upper thigh that looked like a miniature of the state of Texas. We'd talked about it numerous times.

            “How do you plan on getting a look at Dalton's legs?”

            “The gym. He went today. I'm sure he'll go again.”

            I didn't think Chris' eyebrows could raise that high. “So you, who never goes to the gym, are going to stake out the gym in order to get a look at a co-worker's naked ass to determine if he's a former gay-porn star?”

           

~

            The gym was on the 32^nd floor and looked out over the downtown skyline. The city seemed peaceful at five am. Or maybe I was just tired. I chose a treadmill with a good view of the entire gym. I could see the weight room area and all the cardio equipment. If Dalton/Shiloh showed up, I'd be sure to see him. The plan was to work out until he went into the locker room to change and then follow him.

            I set a pace I thought I could keep up for awhile and watched the early news on Fox. Jason showed up fifteen minutes into my walk and hopped on the treadmill next to me.

            “Hey, Bro. Didn't know you worked out?”

            “My wife hinted that I've put on a couple pounds”. Always working on my cover.

            Jason cranked his treadmill up to what seemed like a sprint and cruised along next to me. He talked non-stop and never seemed to lose his breath. I stayed quiet and tried to disguise how out of shape I was.

            5:45. No Dalton/Shiloh. It was time for work. I'd have to try again the next day. I went the next day and the next and the next. Still no Dalton/Shiloh. I went back the following Monday. No Dalton/Shiloh.

            Tuesday morning I came out of the locker room and saw someone on my treadmill (funny how in a week's time, that treadmill became mine). As I walked closer, I saw that it was Dalton. My breath caught. Finally. I chose a treadmill several feet away and settled in. My heart was beating so fast that I couldn't do my usual 3.5mph pace. Forty minutes later Dalton headed for the locker room. I followed a minute behind him.

            I undressed quickly, put a towel around my waist., and moved toward the showers. My eyes darted here and there trying to catch sight of him. I heard the water running in two of the showers. He had to be in one. I showered quickly and went back to the locker room to wait.

            Dalton strode confidently back into the locker room and dropped his towel.  His body was exactly the same. He was fit and toned and tight and tanned. I would have known that body anywhere.  I didn't need a name or a face or birthmark. But there it was. As Dalton bent down to pull something out of his gym bag, I saw a miniature state of Texas on his left upper thigh. Bingo. Proof. Dalton Eskew  is/was Shiloh Campfield.

~

            A week passed. I remained undecided. I couldn't tell the firm about Dalton without outing myself. I was in a holding pattern. I thought about approaching him, but what good would that do? He might quit, but he could take me with him. The minute I called him 'Shiloh', he would know I was gay and my cover would be blown. I considered sending a file to Mr. Hearn or Mr. Upson from an anonymous email account and IP address, but I knew enough about computer forensics to know that nothing is ever really anonymous, unless you're a hacker. I was a constitutional law specialist, not a computer genius. Still, though, I knew that if I knew someone might also know. Once the case went public and our defense team made the nightly news, someone would see him and make a phone call. It was only a matter of time.

            The phone on my desk buzzed. “Mr. Hearn would like to see you in his office.” It was my assistant, Cheryl.

            That was odd. I'd never been summoned to an audience with the Old Man. Maybe they'd decided to make me partner before the big case broke. We'd been making spectacular progress. It was possible.

            As I approached Hearn's glass walled office, I could see that a few other people had been called to the office. I pushed the door open and was greeting by Mr. Hearn, Steve Simmons, the managing partner, Davis Sutherland, my boss, and Ross Miller, the firm's legal counsel.

            “Have a seat, Mr. Lindshire.”

            I sat.

            “This isn't an easy one for me, Brash.” It was Davis, the man who'd hired me and mentored me for nine years.

            Simmons spoke next. “A week ago, a concern was brought to my attention. It isn't important who voiced it.”

            I didn't speak. I sat. Maybe I breathed.

            “Did you go to the gym upstairs last week?”

            “Yes, Sir.”

            “And you utilized the locker room facilities?”

            “Yes, Sir.”

            “Brash,” Davis interrupted. “Someone said that you behaved inappropriately toward one of our associates while you were in the locker room.”

            Stunned silence. I couldn't breathe.

            Simmons again, “Brasher, in researching this incident, we took a look at your personal life and we found a few inconsistencies.”

            Someone pulled out the morals clause I had signed. Someone else talked at length about my electric bills, checking accounts, and my sons' adoption papers. Someone else tossed picture after picture of me and Chris on the table in front of me. I didn't know how they'd gotten them.

            “Son,” It was Old Man Hearn. “I'm afraid that we have no choice. You have behaved in an un-Christian manner and we cannot tolerate such conduct at our law firm. We maintain strong Christian values here, young man. What you do is an abomination before the Lord. We cannot and will not have an associate in this firm who subscribes to such a lifestyle.”

            I signed a resignation contract and was led to the door.

            “I'll pray for you, Son.”

            Someone helped me clean out my office and in a matter of moments I was on the elevator with a banker's box in hand. Zander and Evan's picture peaked out the top. I was living my worst nightmare. I was sure Dalton had ratted me out to save himself. He must have known that I knew.

            The G on the elevator's control panel lit up and the door slid open. I stepped out into the artificial yellow light of the parking garage. My footsteps echoed. I was lost. A car door slammed in the distance and I heard the tweet of a security system. I fumbled for my keys and nearly dropped the box.

            “Lindshire? Hey, let me help you.”

            I looked up. Shiloh Campfield stood before me with his hands out stretched.

            “Fuck you. Stay away from me.”

            “What? Just trying to help.”

            “I don't need your help, Shiloh. I don't need anything from you. You already did enough.”

            His eyes met mine and widened.

            “You know.” His voice was lower than a whisper.

            “Yeah, and you do, too. That's why I'm getting walked out of here. They found out about me. You told them.”

            He stammered. “I-I-I didn't. Look, Brasher, I'm trying to fly under the radar with this. Yes, you're right. I was Shiloh Campfield. Was. Thanks to those videos I was able to pay cash for law school. At Stanford. You know that's not cheap. But I left that life behind years ago.”

            He held up his left hand and showed me his wedding band.

            “I'm married now. We've got a our third kid on the way.”

            “So, you ruined my life to save yours?”

            “I don't know what you're talking about. I suspected you might be gay, but it's none of my business. I was in the industry long enough to spot you guys. I'd never have said anything, though. These guys here are hard-core, over-the-top Bible thumpers. Close-minded assholes, if you ask me. I just hoped you wouldn't out me.”

            My eyes didn't leave his. His eyes didn't leave mine.

            “Brasher, it wasn't me. I didn't do this.”

            For some reason, I believed him. I put the box on the front seat of the Cadillac and slammed the door.

            Dalton smiled slyly. “So, were you a fan?”

            “Absolutely. Still have all the DVD's packed away in the attic.”

            “Well, thanks for not letting my secret out. I'm just hoping I can keep it”.

            I extended my hand to shake his. “Good luck with the case, Dalton.”

            Jason. Suddenly I knew. If it Dalton hadn't ratted me out, the only other person I'd seen in the gym was Jason. He was a first year associate with a lot to gain if I was out. It had to be him. Had to be. Bastard.

            “Jason. Jason Hillson. Be careful of him.” And with that, I got in my car and drove out the garage.