Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 305(@200wpm)___ 244(@250wpm)___ 203(@300wpm)
She gestures at a glass-walled conference room. “This is where the partners conduct their morning strategy sessions. Of course, you’re not expected to attend, at least not in a substantive manner. But occasionally, paralegals are called in for note-taking.”
I nod, biting my lip. Two silhouettes, backs to the glass, deep in concentration over something on a whiteboard. One man is built like a heavyweight—broad shoulders, square head, dark hair cropped close. The other is a shade taller, and slightly thinner, but just as athletic and imposing. I can’t see their faces, but a wave of intensity hits me, even though their backs are turned. Goodness, this place is packed with alpha males!
Meanwhile, Jenkins continues down the hall, past a row of paralegal cubicles. “You’ll want to make friends here. They know everything.” She shoots me a side-eye that could tan leather. “And everyone talks.”
Noted.
My office isn’t exactly what I’d call an “office.” It’s a desk in a glass fishbowl, flanked by two other desks occupied by women who might, in a parallel universe, be fashion models. One looks up briefly when I arrive, registers me, and returns to hammering out an email at lightspeed. The other doesn’t even acknowledge my existence.
“Ms. Williams, this is your station,” Jenkins intones. “There’s a phone and a laptop for you. Password instructions are in the envelope. Any questions?”
I hesitate for a moment.
“Um, yes. Where do I find the restroom?”
That bloodless smile again. “Past the elevator bank, left at the water fountain.”
When she departs, I collapse into my chair. It’s one of those fancy ergonomic ones, and it makes a pneumatic sigh, like we’re both already exhausted. The view from my fishbowl is floor-to-ceiling windows and a slice of the river, cut with traffic and the darting shapes of water taxis.
My hands shake as I unpack the envelope. There’s a schedule, a map of the office, a lanyard badge with the worst photo ever taken of me, and a list of passwords that look randomly generated with loads of lower case letters, uppercase letters, numbers, and symbols. I spend the next half hour poking at the laptop, afraid to click the wrong thing, and trying not to eavesdrop on the blur of office conversation around me.
Eventually, curiosity wins. I stand, pretending to need the printer, and take the scenic route past a cluster of wall-mounted newspaper clippings. The headlines are a testament to the firm’s bloodlust: “City’s Top Attorneys Score Unprecedented Verdict.” “Gibson & Grant Dismantle Prosecutor’s Case.” “Legal Dream Team Shocks Supreme Court.”
The next one makes my pulse spike: “Defense Attorneys Challenge State’s Lethal Injection Protocol: The Stanley Williams Case.”
And there it is: a photo under the glass of my dad, wild-eyed and thin, two days before sentencing. I feel a tremor start at the backs of my knees and climb. The byline is old and yellowed, but the wound is fresh. My heart races as a sweat breaks out on my brow. This is what I’m here for, even if no one knows it: exonerating my father’s name. Stanley died when I was only a child, executed by the state for crimes he didn’t commit. He couldn’t have. I don’t believe it. As a result, I’m here now, and a full-grown adult. I mean to clear his name, even if it takes everything in my power, and every cent in my bank account.
I stand there longer than I mean to. I imagine Ms. Jenkins lurking around the corner, ready to remind me that paralegals are not here for sightseeing, but I can’t move. I stand stock still and force my face neutral, the way my mother taught me for funerals and parole boards.
It’s not until the click of heels approaches that I snap to attention. It’s the other desk girl—the one who hadn’t even glanced at me. She has a delicate, heart-shaped face, golden tresses bound into a bun, and skin so pale she could pass for a ghost in the right light.
“Don’t let them catch you staring at that wall,” she says, voice pitched low, conspiratorial. “They don’t like to talk about their losses.”
I blink. “Oh. I wasn’t—I just—”
She shrugs. “It’s a hell of a thing, that case. My dad knew one of the jurors. Said he still has nightmares.” She looks me over, head to toe, then grins. “I’m Shay. Welcome to the shark tank.”
“Thanks. I’m—”
“I know,” she interrupts, tipping an imaginary hat. “It’s on the badge. Don’t let Jenkins catch you eating lunch at your desk, and if you ever want to actually see your paycheck, get on her good side.”
I make a mental note, nodding.
Shay leans closer. “You’re not like the others.”
I smile hesitantly. “Why is that?”
She merely laughs before shrugging, and then glides back to her desk, leaving me with the odd sensation that I’ve just been both sized up and handed a lifeline.