Total pages in book: 22
Estimated words: 22937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 115(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 22937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 115(@200wpm)___ 92(@250wpm)___ 76(@300wpm)
“Mr. Tate…” The judge lets out a sigh. “Is there any reason why we need to continue staring at your naked client?”
“My client is the real victim here,” I say, standing.
“How do you figure that, Mr. Tate?”
“He was accused of sliding his ‘eight-inch penis’ across a window and flexing a six-pack of abs while he did it.”
“The security footage caught him trespassing onto his ex-wife’s property…”
“From afar, and not after he crossed the yard.” I look at him. “Her claim is obviously four inches and fifty pounds off from reality, so I just think it’s fair to show that in this hearing before we have to do this in front of a jury.”
“You’ve made your point, Mr. Tate.” The judge shakes his head. “Let’s take a twenty-minute recess and give the defendant time to put on some pants, okay?”
He bangs his gavel, and my client—a rare, innocent one—joins me behind the table.
He pulls on a pair of khakis and smiles. “I’m going to grab some coffee. Want me to bring you one?”
“I’m okay, thank you.”
As he leaves, the prosecutor slams a napkin atop my file before walking away. There’s a note etched in blue ink.
Let’s just SETTLE this one.
$2M with a permanent no-contact order.
Your client pays court costs?
I scribble “SOLD” and toss it to her table.
Heading into the hallway, I stop as a woman in a red dress walks toward me.
Scarlett?
The woman throws her middle finger up at me.
“Nice to see you too, Miss.” I smile.
“You ruined my client’s life two years ago.” She narrows her eyes. “Don’t you remember?”
I don’t, so I don’t bother answering.
I walk past her and find a place near the steps.
Pulling out my phone, I call Rachel.
“Please tell me this case isn’t going to trial,” she answers.
“We’re going to settle by evening,” I say. “Did you call that other loan company I sent you to?”
“Yeah, hold on…” She hums. “There are three companies with the Ferguson name, and they were all thrilled to be on your radar for potential representation.”
“That’s not why I asked you to call them.”
“I know, I know, I’m getting there.” The sound of her flipping through papers comes over the line. “Yes, there’s a woman named Scarlett with an outstanding debt, and they’re willing to waive half of what she owes in exchange for getting your representation.”
“They must be underestimating my retainer fee,” I say. “How much could this woman possibly owe?”
“Fifty thousand dollars before their interest fees.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Fifty thousand before fees,” she repeats. “But when they factor in all the late fees and everything else, she owes sixty-nine thousand.”
I blink.
“Mr. Tate? Mr. Tate, are you there?”
“I need to call you back.” I end our connection before she can respond and lean against the railing.
This situation is none of my business, but between all the times I’ve replayed our night together and the pure panic that flashed in her irises—I’m intrigued.
Opening my inbox, I click on the trash folder and search for her last email to me.
Against my better judgment, I copy her number and call it.
It rings once. It rings twice.
“Oh my God, look!” She answers with a huff. “I’m not interested in opening a new loan, my credit is fucked, and I would really appreciate it if you people deleted me off your calling list.”
“Hello, Scarlett,” I say.
“Um, hi… Who is this?”
“Jameson.” I pause. “Is now a bad time?”
“No, I just thought…” She clears her throat. “I thought you were another robocall.”
“Obviously.”
“Are you calling to finally tell me where I can meet you?”
“No, I think I’ve seen you enough for this lifetime.”
“You’ve seen me once.”
“Exactly.” I refuse to let her steer this conversation. “This is about something else.”
“I’m listening.”
“The card those men gave me that night was for a personal loan company. Do you owe them any money?”
“That’s a really personal question.”
“It’s a yes-or-no one.”
She doesn’t answer.
“Hello?” I ask. “Scarlett?”
“You can send my shoes to either of the PLS Check Cashing stores on Broadway,” she says, her voice tight. “I know the manager. I’ll tell him to keep a lookout for them.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“You can delete my number now,” she says. “My apologies for coming into your life—once.”
She hangs up, and instead of doing exactly what she said, I call her right back.
“Yes?” she answers.
“I don’t appreciate it when witnesses don’t answer my direct questions.”
“What?” She lets out a haughty laugh. “Why are you trying to sound like a lawyer?”
“I am a fucking lawyer.”
“Oh. Then your lack of social skills makes perfect sense now,” she says. “I should’ve known.”
“You should also know that I don’t like leaving conversations unfinished. Do you owe them money?”
“No, I was just running away from them for fun,” she says. “It’s a game we’re playing, and you caught us in the middle of a super fun round.”
She hangs up in my face again, but I don’t call her back this time.