Chapter 33 Tasha
thirty-three
tasha
The law office on Fifth Street had marble floors and leather furniture that probably cost more than Nate's car. The receptionist, perfectly coiffed and wearing what I recognized as a designer blazer, smiled at us with the kind of professional warmth that came with a price tag.
"Mr. and Mrs. Crawford?" she asked, and I didn't bother to correct her. "Mr. Harrison will see you now."
James Harrison looked like central casting's idea of a high-powered attorney—silver-haired, expensive suit, diplomas covering one wall like trophies. He listened to Nate's explanation with the kind of focused attention that made you feel like your case was the most important thing in the world.
Right up until he quoted his retainer.
"Fifty thousand dollars," Harrison said matter-of-factly. "That covers initial case preparation, discovery, and court appearances through resolution. Additional fees may apply depending on complexity."
I felt Nate go rigid beside me, saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard.
"That's... most of what I make in a year," Nate said quietly.
Harrison's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. The calculation of a man who'd just realized this wasn't going to be a profitable client.
"I understand that family law can be expensive," he said, already reaching for his calendar. "You might want to consider attorneys who work on a sliding scale basis."
Translation: Get the fuck out of my office, you can't afford me.
We left with a brochure for legal aid and a crushing sense of defeat.
The second office, in a strip mall between a nail salon and a tax preparation service, was more promising. The lawyer, Janet Wexler, seemed competent and genuinely sympathetic. Her fee was reasonable—only five thousand up front.
"The problem," she explained apologetically, "is timing. Your hearing is in six days. I'd need at least two weeks to properly prepare a defense for a case this serious. Primary custody modifications require extensive documentation, witness preparation, expert testimonies..."
She trailed off, seeing the desperation on Nate's face.
"I could try to get a continuance," she offered, "but given that you've already had the initial meeting with the child, the judge might not grant one. And if I'm not prepared..."
We thanked her and left. Nate was quiet on the drive to the third office, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
By the fifth law office, a pattern was emerging that made my stomach drop.
"I'm sorry," the receptionist at Morrison & Associates said, not looking sorry at all. "Mr. Morrison isn't taking new clients in family law matters at this time."
"We haven't even explained the case yet," I said.
"He specifically asked me to tell you that he's had a consultation regarding this matter and would be conflicted out."
The words hit like ice water. "A consultation? With whom?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
Outside, Nate leaned against the car, running his hands through his hair. "What does 'conflicted out' mean?"
My mind was racing, pieces clicking together in a way that made me feel sick. "It means they've already talked to Sarah. Or her lawyer. Which means they can't represent you."
"But we never—"
"No, Nate. We never talked to them. But she did." I pulled out my phone, scrolling through the list of family attorneys I'd researched. "How many have we called?"
"Seven or eight?"
"And how many have been available and affordable?"
The silence stretched between us as the implications sank in.
I started making calls right there in the parking lot, working through the list with growing horror. One after another, the responses were variations on the same theme:
"Already consulted on this matter."
"Conflict of interest."
"Not taking new family law clients."
By the tenth call, my hands were shaking.
"Nate," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "She's done this on purpose."
He looked up from where he'd been staring at the pavement. "What?"
"Sarah. Or her lawyer. They've consulted with every decent family attorney in the city. They're not actually seeking their services. They're just having initial consultations to create conflicts of interest."
The color drained from his face. "That's... that's legal?"
"Technically, maybe. Ethical? Hell no. But if no one reports it..." I felt rage building in my chest, white-hot and consuming. "She's been planning this, Nate. The timing, the lawyer consultations, everything. This isn't about wanting a relationship with Paige. This is about destroying you."
Nate slumped against the car like all the air had been knocked out of him. "So what do I do? I can't afford the expensive ones. The affordable ones aren't available or conflicted out. The hearing is in six days."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with implications: a single father, representing himself against a woman with money and a high-powered attorney.
"I don't know anything about family law," he said. "I'll lose. She'll take Paige."
"Maybe. Or maybe the judge will see what she's doing. The consultation thing, the timing, the way she's been manipulating everything." Even as I said it, I didn't believe it. Judges dealt with facts and legal arguments, not righteous indignation.
Nate straightened up, and I recognized the expression that crossed his face. Military bearing, kicking in when everything else failed. The same look he'd had when he'd defended me from that racist patient.
"Okay," he said quietly. "I'll do it myself."
"Nate—"
"No, it's okay. I'll figure it out. I'll research family law, I'll prepare arguments, I'll..." His voice cracked slightly. "I'll do whatever it takes."
I wanted to tell him it would be okay, that love and dedication would triumph over money and manipulation. But standing there in that parking lot, looking at this good man who was about to walk into a legal slaughter, I couldn't find the words.
Sarah had played this perfectly. She'd taken away our options, our time, and our hope, all while maintaining the facade of being the reasonable one.
And the worst part was, it was probably going to work.