Chapter 19
Sandra's arms struggled to carry everything as she maneuvered through the glass doors of the Legal Aid office.
Her laptop bag cut into her shoulder, her purse threatened to slip from her elbow, and her lunch bag dangled precariously from her fingertips.
The white bakery box from Bess's Bakery sat atop everything, holding her sweet offering for the caffeine-deprived attorneys.
She'd had to decide between coffee or pastries at the bakery counter since she only had two hands and too much to carry.
The pastries won, which meant she'd be stuck with whatever brew the office pod machine could produce.
Thank goodness for the chocolate caramel creamer tucked safely in her lunch bag.
It was her secret weapon against not great coffee, though nothing could truly compete with Bess's perfectly roasted beans.
"Good morning, Sandra!" Portia's cheerful voice cut through the morning quiet. The receptionist's dark eyes widened as she took in Sandra's precarious juggling act. "Oh, goodness! Let me help you!"
Relief flooded through Sandra as Portia rushed around the counter, her heels clicking against the worn tile floor. "Thank you! You can take that bag into the break room. I stopped this morning to get some pastries from Bess."
Portia's face lit up like Christmas morning, and Sandra couldn't help but laugh at the woman's obvious delight. "I knew that would make everybody happy!"
As Portia disappeared down the narrow hallway, Sandra called out her morning greetings to her colleagues. "Hello, Tom. Hello, Rupert. Good morning!"
Rupert's head popped up from behind his computer screen, hope gleaming in his tired eyes. "Did I hear the word pastries?"
"Yep! I have some that are sweet and a couple of egg, cheese, and bacon muffins."
"Damn, you have perfect timing." Rupert rubbed his stubbled jaw and shook his head. "Margery was struggling this morning, so I just had a piece of toast for breakfast."
Sandra paused in his doorway, her heart clenching with sympathy. "Morning sickness still hitting her?"
The worry lines around Rupert's eyes deepened as he nodded. "Yes, but her doctor says she should be getting over it soon."
"Well, get the pastries while they're warm," Sandra encouraged, hoping the small gesture might brighten his day. Remembering what he said the other day, she asked, “How was golf with Mr. Blackwood? Did you get a chance to look at any houses?”
Rupert’s eyes lit as he smiled. “Sure did. Man, he does beautiful work on those custom homes.”
“I hear they’re expensive!” Portia said.
Tom nodded while chewing on a pastry. “Yeah. I looked at some of his, but when we moved to The Dunes, we bought a house that was several years old. The owners wanted a quick sale, so we got a deal. It wasn’t a Blackwood home, though.”
Rubert sighed. “Yeah… his prices meet the quality of his work. But he said we might be able to get a smaller house, built in one of The Dunes’ older neighborhoods.
Not on the beach. If we do that, we should be able to afford it.
” He licked the powdered sugar off his lips.
“Although the attorney who golfed with us is someone Harrison knew. He told me that there were ways to increase my income on the side. He said his company used several attorneys part-time.” He shrugged.
“Who knows, it might be a way to get a beachside house.”
Portia cocked her hip and lifted her brow. “Yeah, and with a new baby, just when will you have time for that?”
Sandra chuckled, wished him luck, then headed back to her cramped office, dropping her bags with a grateful sigh. The familiar chaos of legal files, documents, and a plethora of sticky notes welcomed her back.
Portia appeared in the doorway, notepad in hand. "You've got a full morning. You have a nine o'clock appointment with the Hendersons." She glanced up, her expression growing serious. "They're the older couple who have a problem with a fence company."
Sandra nodded. She'd already reviewed their contract and felt she could assist them with their civil case.
"Then Jenny Thompson is coming in. She's still having problems with her landlord and needs advice. After that, you have a late morning appointment with the Garcias."
"Okay, thanks, Portia. Just let me know when the Hendersons get here."
Twenty minutes later, Harold and Doris Henderson sat across from Sandra's desk, their weathered hands clasped tightly together. Harold's flannel shirt hung loose on his thin frame, while Doris clutched a manila folder to her chest like armor.
"We trusted them," Doris whispered, her voice trembling. "Forty-three years we've lived in that house, and we never had a problem with anybody."
Harold's jaw worked silently before he found his voice. "The fence company came highly recommended. Said they'd build us a six-foot privacy fence for five thousand dollars." His laugh was bitter. "Privacy fence, my ass. Thing's barely four feet tall and looks like a drunk kindergartner built it."
Sandra opened the contract they'd provided, re-scanning the specifications. "According to this, you're absolutely right. The contract clearly states six feet in height, cedar boards, and four-by-four posts, all with professional installation."
"They're saying we misunderstood," Doris said, her faded blue eyes filling with tears. "That man had the nerve to tell me I was confused because of my age. I may be seventy-six, but I can still read just fine."
Sandra's pen clicked against her notepad. "Have you documented the discrepancies with photographs?"
Harold nodded grimly. "My grandson took pictures with his phone, then printed them out. The fence posts are crooked, the height's wrong, and there's a gap you could drive a truck through."
"They want another three thousand to fix it," Doris added, her voice growing stronger with indignation. "Three thousand more dollars for work they should've done right the first time."
Sandra made detailed notes, her mind already formulating their legal strategy. "We're going to demand they complete the work according to the contract specifications at no additional cost. If they refuse, we'll pursue legal action for breach of contract and potentially fraud."
The relief that washed over the elderly couple's faces warmed Sandra's chest. This was why she'd chosen Legal Aid… to be the voice for those who couldn't afford to fight back.
Jenny Thompson arrived thirty minutes late, with her five-year-old daughter, Julie, clinging to her leg like a koala. Dark circles shadowed Jenny's eyes, and her uniform from the diner bore fresh stains from the morning rush.
"I'm so sorry," Jenny breathed, settling Julie in a corner chair with a coloring book. "My babysitter canceled at the last minute, and I couldn't find anyone else."
"It's perfectly fine," Sandra assured her, pulling out a small container of crayons she kept for these situations. "Julie, would you like some crayons to go with your book?"
The little girl's face brightened, and she nodded shyly.
Jenny's shoulders sagged with exhaustion. "Mr. Kowalski is at it again. The heat went out in March, when it was still cold. The stove went out three days ago, and he's refusing to fix it. The whole stove and oven! Says it's not his responsibility because we're month-to-month tenants. That’s on top of the washer that doesn’t work, either. I’ve been schlepping our clothes to the laundry mat after work for the past month. It’s the only place I can afford, but I need the appliances to work.”
Sandra's pen flew across her notepad. "Has he provided any written notice about the appliance or heat issue?"
"Nothing in writing. He just keeps saying he'll 'get to it when he gets to it.'" Jenny's voice cracked.
"Virginia law requires landlords to maintain heating systems regardless of lease type," Sandra explained, her voice firm with conviction.
"We're going to send him a formal demand letter citing the specific statutes he's violating. And since your lease clearly states that the appliances are included, the letter will reference that as well.”
Jenny's eyes filled with tears of relief. "I was so scared he'd kick us out if I complained too much. I can't afford to move right now, not with Julie starting kindergarten next month."
"He cannot retaliate against you for demanding habitable living conditions," Sandra said, reaching across the desk to squeeze Jenny's hand. "That's illegal, and we'll make sure he knows it."
Julie looked up from her coloring, her crayon paused mid-stroke. "Are you going to help my mommy?"
Sandra's heart melted at the child's innocent question. "Yes, sweetheart. I'm going to help your mommy make sure you have a warm house with a stove and a washing machine that work."
The smile that spread across Julie's face was worth more than any corporate salary Sandra had ever been offered.
Later that day, Manuel Garcia's calloused hands smoothed the contract pages against Sandra's desk while his wife, Carmen, sat rigidly beside him, her purse clutched in her lap like a shield. Manuel's work shirt bore the Garcia Electrical logo, something she could see he wore with pride.
"I've been doing electrical work for over twenty years," Manuel said, his accent thick with emotion. "Never had problems with contracts before, but this one..." He shook his head, frustration evident in his dark eyes. "Something feels different about it."
Sandra accepted the thick document, noting the professional letterhead for Blackwood's Luxury Custom Homes.
"What specifically concerns you about this contract?" she asked, flipping through the pages.
Manuel shifted uncomfortably. "The payment structure, for one. Usually, I get paid in stages as the work progresses. This contract has me waiting until the entire project is finished before I see most of my money. It’s the first time BLCH has subcontracted me."
"That's unusual for trade work," Sandra agreed, scanning the payment terms. The contract was oddly complex for standard electrical work, with several addendums that seemed unnecessarily complicated.
Carmen leaned forward, her voice quiet but urgent. "We can't afford to work for months without payment. We have bills, and Jose needs..." She glanced at her husband, then fell silent.
Manuel's jaw tightened. "Our son got into some trouble last weekend. There was a party that he was delivering pizzas to, and the police showed up. Nothing serious, but we might need a lawyer if charges are filed."
Sandra looked up from the contract. "I should mention that I'm not a criminal defense attorney. If Jose is actually arrested, I can recommend someone who specializes in juvenile cases."
"He's a good boy," Carmen said quickly, her eyes defensive. "He said he recognized a girl at the party and stayed to be with her. He said she seemed afraid with so much drinking going on around them, but had ridden with someone else from over the bay and had no way to get home.”
Manuel reached over and squeezed his wife's hand. "We've talked to him about it. He understands now that he should have let us know where he was."
"It sounds as though he was acting honorably," Sandra said gently. "The important thing is that he learned from it."
"He did." Manuel nodded firmly. "He's been helping me with small jobs, learning the trade as well as working for the pizza place outside of Easton. I want him to understand the value of honest work."
Sandra returned her attention to the contract, noting several clauses that seemed unnecessarily restrictive. "This nondisclosure agreement section is quite extensive. Have you worked with projects requiring this level of confidentiality before?"
Manuel frowned. "No, but Mr. Blackwood explained that his clients value their privacy. Rich people, I guess? They don't want their business spread around town."
"That makes sense," Sandra said, though something nagged at her about the contract's complexity. "The payment terms are definitely unusual, but everything appears to be legal. My recommendation would be to negotiate for at least partial payments during the project phases."
"Do you think I should take the job?" Manuel asked, his voice uncertain.
Sandra studied his weathered face, seeing the weight of financial responsibility in his eyes. "That's ultimately your decision. The contract is legitimate, though the terms favor the company more than the contractor. If you need the work..."
"We do," Carmen said quietly. "I work daytimes at my sister’s restaurant, and we’re trying to get ahead, not just barely scrape by."
Manuel nodded slowly. "I'll talk to Mr. Blackwood about the payment schedule. If he won't budge, I'll probably still take it. Work's been slow lately, and Blackwood's Luxury Custom Homes would be a boost to my business."
Sandra made copies of the contract for their records. "Feel free to call me if you have any questions once you start the project. Sometimes issues arise that aren't apparent during the initial review."
As the Garcia family gathered their papers, Manuel paused at the door. "Thank you for taking the time to look at this. Most lawyers wouldn't bother with a simple contract review."
"That's what we're here for," Sandra replied, watching them leave.
Something about the Blackwood contract lingered in her mind, but she couldn't put her finger on what bothered her about it.
Maybe it was just the complexity, or perhaps it was the way Manuel seemed uncomfortable discussing the confidentiality requirements.
She filed the copy away, jotting a note to follow up with Manuel in a few weeks to see how the project was progressing.