JAMESON
Two hours later, I park my Porsche in front of my firm—a sleek glass building that overlooks the edge of the Hudson River.
It’s part of an office complex I purchased years ago, back when I foolishly believed that the justice system was fair.
Alas, every few months this place gives me a new reason to regret ever signing the papers.
Today, my main sign is missing the lights under the first “T” and the final letters, so it currently reads “ate & ass.”
Groaning, I pull out my phone and call my top contractor.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Tate!” he answers on the first ring.
“It’ll be a good afternoon when you finally fix my sign, Mr. Julian,” I say. “It’s been two weeks since I called you about it.”
“Yeah, I know, but…”
“But, what?”
“I’m taking my time until I see what happens with that Marbury case you’re handling,” he says. “Word got around that he’s hiring you to represent him.”
“And?”
“And I don’t know if I can work on something that might benefit that boy.”
Jesus Christ…
“With all due respect, Mr. Julian, my clients and their lawsuits have nothing to do with my firm’s lights.”
“Teenager or not, Marbury is not a good person, and you know as well as I do that his drunkenness caused that accident.”
“My sign is supposed to say Tate & Associates.” I ignore his comment. “That’s the only reason I’m calling you.”
“What if the accident had severely injured someone you know, Mr. Tate?” he asks. “Someone you love?”
I don’t love anyone.
“Do you have an ETA on fixing this issue, or do I need to hire someone else?” I ask.
“If Marbury was born to poor parents instead of wealthy ones, I bet you wouldn’t take his case.” He pauses. “You have like twenty cars already, so I doubt you need the extra money.”
I hold back a sigh.
At this point in my career, I don’t need the money from most of my clients, but winning has become one hell of a drug, and I’m the biggest addict I know.
Still, I’ve never felt the need to explain anything about my case selection process to anyone, and that’s not changing anytime soon.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Julian.” I step out of my car. “I’ll hire someone else to handle this. You’ll hear from my assistant about cancelling all future services.”
“Oh, no, wait! I was just?—”
I end the call and stroll through my firm’s doors.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Tate!” My best hire, Rachel, rushes toward me with a smile. “Did you have a good day in court?”
“Always,” I say. “Update my record, please. Not guilty.”
“On it.” She hands me a file. “As a heads up, Miles just hired a team of new paralegals and college students for the upcoming Joseph case.”
“Without asking me?”
“He said you’ll need all the help you can get.” She shrugs. “Oh, and your stepfather has been waiting on line one for almost half an hour.”
“Tell him I died.”
“He knows you’re still alive, sir.”
“Then keep telling him until he finally believes it.”
“Okay…” She frowns. “What about your mother? Want to tell her something other than ‘I’ll call you back’ for a change?”
“Sure. Tell her that…”
I stop talking, feeling a slight pang of guilt at the fact that I hadn’t seen her face or heard her raspy laughter in over a decade. That the only communication between us that remained was midnight birthday texts, ‘Hope you’re doing well’ emails, and the occasional handwritten letter with updates that didn’t really matter.
The fraying strings on our estrangement were sheared by her hands, and I knew there wasn’t enough time for us to suture them together.
“Tell her I’ll call her back soon,” is all I can say. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” She hands me an envelope. “Don’t forget to show your face at the grand opening for the Piedmont Hotel tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because Helen St. Pierre owns it, and she wants you to know she’ll be wearing Chanel.” She winks. “She also has the penthouse suite reserved in case you want to ‘settle’ the tension between you two.”
“She did not say those words to you, Rachel…”
“Okay, I made that part up.” She shrugs. “But could you please just screw her so I don’t have to deal with her desperation anymore?”
“No, but I will stop by her event.”
I walk away and take the elevator to the top floor.
When the doors open, my name glitters in huge gold letters on the wall, and my undefeated record is displayed on a huge screen.
Walking into my office, I lock the door and find a bright pink envelope atop my desk.
I open it to see a “Come see me” card, along with black-and-white photos of Helen.
Naked photos.
I flip through them and sigh before tossing them into the trash and opening my next case.
The woman looks good—she always has—but not good enough to distract me from my work or make me want anything more.
No one can ever do that…