JAMESON
One Week Later
There’s a woman in this courtroom gallery who looks a lot like Scarlett from where I’m sitting. So much so that I’m convinced that maybe—just maybe—I can get to her after court and close out the simple-ass task of returning her shoes. Then she’ll finally stop appearing every few hours in my mind.
Her face is buried in the pages of a book, and with every page she turns, she slides a hand through her auburn curls.
Look up at me.
I stare at her, waiting, and when she finally does, I realize she’s a woman in her early forties. She’s also a court reporter I’ve seen plenty of times.
Shaking my head, I spot another woman on the third row who might be Scarlett, too. It only takes fifteen seconds for Scarlett’s face to disappear into another stranger’s.
What the hell is happening?
“Objection, Your Honor!” The prosecutor interrupts my thoughts. “Can the defense please make his client put on some pants and sit down while I’m cross-examining him?”
“Mr. Tate…” The judge lets out a sigh. “Is there any reason why we need to continue staring at your naked client?”
“My client is the real victim here,” I say, standing.
“How do you figure that, Mr. Tate?”
“He was accused of sliding his ‘eight-inch penis’ across a window and flexing a six-pack of abs while he did it.”
“The security footage caught him trespassing onto his ex-wife’s property…”
“From afar, and not after he crossed the yard.” I look at him. “Her claim is obviously four inches and fifty pounds off from reality, so I just think it’s fair to show that in this hearing before we have to do this in front of a jury.”
“You’ve made your point, Mr. Tate.” The judge shakes his head. “Let’s take a twenty-minute recess and give the defendant time to put on some pants, okay?”
He bangs his gavel, and my client—a rare, innocent one—joins me behind the table.
He pulls on a pair of khakis and smiles. “I’m going to grab some coffee. Want me to bring you one?”
“I’m okay, thank you.”
As he leaves, the prosecutor slams a napkin atop my file before walking away. There’s a note etched in blue ink.
Let’s just SETTLE this one.
$2M with a permanent no-contact order.
Your client pays court costs?
I scribble “SOLD” and toss it to her table.
Heading into the hallway, I stop as a woman in a red dress walks toward me.
Scarlett?
The woman throws her middle finger up at me.
“Nice to see you too, Miss.” I smile.
“You ruined my client’s life two years ago.” She narrows her eyes. “Don’t you remember?”
I don’t, so I don’t bother answering.
I walk past her and find a place near the steps.
Pulling out my phone, I call Rachel.
“Please tell me this case isn’t going to trial,” she answers.
“We’re going to settle by evening,” I say. “Did you call that other loan company I sent you to?”
“Yeah, hold on…” She hums. “There are three companies with the Ferguson name, and they were all thrilled to be on your radar for potential representation.”
“That’s not why I asked you to call them.”
“I know, I know, I’m getting there.” The sound of her flipping through papers comes over the line. “Yes, there’s a woman named Scarlett with an outstanding debt, and they’re willing to waive half of what she owes in exchange for getting your representation.”
“They must be underestimating my retainer fee,” I say. “How much could this woman possibly owe?”
“Fifty thousand dollars before their interest fees.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Fifty thousand before fees,” she repeats. “But when they factor in all the late fees and everything else, she owes sixty-nine thousand.”
I blink.
“Mr. Tate? Mr. Tate, are you there?”
“I need to call you back.” I end our connection before she can respond and lean against the railing.
This situation is none of my business, but between all the times I’ve replayed our night together and the pure panic that flashed in her irises—I’m intrigued.
Opening my inbox, I click on the trash folder and search for her last email to me.
Against my better judgment, I copy her number and call it.
It rings once. It rings twice.
“Oh my God, look!” She answers with a huff. “I’m not interested in opening a new loan, my credit is fucked, and I would really appreciate it if you people deleted me off your calling list.”
“Hello, Scarlett,” I say.
“Um, hi… Who is this?”
“Jameson.” I pause. “Is now a bad time?”
“No, I just thought…” She clears her throat. “I thought you were another robocall.”
“Obviously.”
“Are you calling to finally tell me where I can meet you?”
“No, I think I’ve seen you enough for this lifetime.”
“You’ve seen me once.”
“Exactly.” I refuse to let her steer this conversation. “This is about something else.”
“I’m listening.”
“The card those men gave me that night was for a personal loan company. Do you owe them any money?”
“That’s a really personal question.”
“It’s a yes-or-no one.”
She doesn’t answer.
“Hello?” I ask. “Scarlett?”
“You can send my shoes to either of the PLS Check Cashing stores on Broadway,” she says, her voice tight. “I know the manager. I’ll tell him to keep a lookout for them.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“You can delete my number now,” she says. “My apologies for coming into your life—once.”
She hangs up, and instead of doing exactly what she said, I call her right back.
“Yes?” she answers.
“I don’t appreciate it when witnesses don’t answer my direct questions.”
“What?” She lets out a haughty laugh. “Why are you trying to sound like a lawyer?”
“I am a fucking lawyer.”
“Oh. Then your lack of social skills makes perfect sense now,” she says. “I should’ve known.”
“You should also know that I don’t like leaving conversations unfinished. Do you owe them money?”
“No, I was just running away from them for fun,” she says. “It’s a game we’re playing, and you caught us in the middle of a super fun round.”
She hangs up in my face again, but I don’t call her back this time.
Instead, I dial Rachel.
“That was fast,” she answers. “What do you need?”
“Tell Ferguson to pause the interest on Scarlett’s account, and we’ll discuss a potential representation agreement.”
“Okay… Is this Scarlett person tied to another client we have or something?”
“No,” I say. “Just add her to my personal ‘We Don’t Talk About This’ folder.”
“Done...” She taps against her keyboard. “Oh, and about those glittering stilettos from your car…”
“I have an address for you to send them to.”
“Me too.” She laughs. “The Chanel store. I already had a courier take them.”
“Without asking me first?”
“Um, yeah,” she says. “They were stolen…”