Total pages in book: 25
Estimated words: 24693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 99(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24693 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 123(@200wpm)___ 99(@250wpm)___ 82(@300wpm)
“At this point, I’m not sure if the bar on your morals can go any lower.” She ignores my comment. “It’s already in Hell.”
“You seem really obsessed with the Hell metaphors lately.” I hold back a sigh. “I could’ve sworn I sent you a thesaurus last month.”
“I received it.” She rolls her eyes. “I only need thirty seconds of your time.”
“Tick tock.”
“Are we adding the Brennan case to our settlement list, or are you hell-bent on putting on a dramatic performance for it in court?”
“Depends,” I say. “What are you offering?”
“Five years in prison, no post-release probation.”
“We’re going to a goddamn trial.”
“Three years in prison,” she counters, “with two years post-release probation.”
“We’re still going to trial.”
“Five years house arrest with strict conditions.” She always has to save her “best offer” last. “Your client pays all legal fees and restitution to the victim.”
“You want my client to pay himself?” I ask. “Has the definition of ‘victim’ changed recently?”
“That’s my best offer and you know it, Jameson,” she says. “Undefeated record or not, this case isn’t worth him risking his freedom with a jury.”
Okay, enough.
“Your evidence is circumstantial at best,” I say. “Your client is unlikable as hell, and if you think I won’t bring up the fact that he killed four puppies when he was a teenager—which will automatically get the jury on my side—you’re delusional.”
“Fine.” She throws up her hands. “Have Rachel call me with your ideas and we’ll negotiate.”
“Give me until tomorrow.”
“Will do.” She lets out a breath. “You know, not that it matters to you or anything, but I’m somewhat grateful that I never see you in any of my special victims cases.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know—” She shrugs. “The rapists, pedophiles, sex offenders. You don’t have a single case like that in your entire history.”
“Even the devil has to draw a line somewhere…”
I turn away and walk into the clerk’s office. I make copies of all the records I’ll need for Scarlett’s father and brothers. I carry them back to my firm and pore over them line by line.
By the time I take a break, it’s Saturday morning and I haven’t contacted Scarlett at all.
FLIGHT (N.):
RUNNING AWAY OR HIDING BY A PERSON OFFICIALLY ACCUSED OF A CRIME WITH THE APPARENT INTENT OF AVOIDING ARREST OR PROSECUTION.
SCARLETT
Wicked: Selected. Main Role
Beauty & The Beast: Selected. Main Role
The Firm—A Musical: Selected. Main Role
I’ve become convinced that Jameson’s existence defies every law in physics, especially the space-time continuum.
He’s present for his clients in court and at his office, often bending over backwards to get them what they need, and he’s available to talk to me on the phone most of the time, but he hardly ever returns to his condo.
Over the past three weeks, I’ve spent more time in it than him, and I’ve noticed a strange pattern.
On Sundays and Wednesday nights, we’re always done talking on the phone by nine because he insists on ending the call right then and there.
He doesn’t call me again until the following day, and it’s never a second before eleven o’clock in the morning.
Confused, I stuff my costume into my bag and take an Uber to his firm.
The moment the driver pulls in front of the door, I hand him a twenty-dollar bill.
“I need you to wait fifteen minutes,” I say. “I’ll be right back out.”
“You’re too pretty to commit crimes, lady.”
“Huh?”
“That’s what you’re here for, right?” He puts the car in park. “You did something terrible and you need a firm like this to get you out of it?”
“Um, no.” I shake my head. “Not at all.”
“Eh, no judgment.” He reclines in his seat. “My cousin hired this place to get him off like twenty charges a decade ago. They’re worth every dime.”
I grab my purse and step out of the car.
Stepping inside the lobby, I head straight for the receptionist’s desk.
“Welcome to Tate & Associates,” Jameson’s second-favorite employee beams. “It’s evening, so certain offices are closed.”
“I know,” I say. “Can you call Jameson Tate and tell him I’m here?”
“Mr. Tate is not here at the moment.” She tilts her head to the side. “And he’s appointment only.”
“If he’s not here, where is he?”
“If this is a personal matter, you probably have his cell phone number, miss.”
“I do,” I say.
“Then call it.” She smiles. “Mr. Tate is not here at the moment, and he’s appointment only.”
“Do you know where he goes on Wednesdays and Sundays?”
She blinks.
Ugh, fine. “Can you leave a message for him then?”
“Absolutely.” She clicks a pen. “What is it?”
“Tell him that…” I shake my head. “That’s okay. Thank you.”
I return to the waiting Uber and try not to think about the first night we met.
I really need to talk to you about something important, Jameson.
He doesn’t answer.
Until the following morning.
Right at 11:01.
Okay. I’ll be back at my place tonight.
Later that evening