John Stone Law

by Dave Derin

  I was in luck. The first image I saw was of a frightened, pale-faced young woman; her mane of curly red hair clashed with the bright orange jumpsuit they’d made her wear. I leaned forward on the couch, unwrapped my chicken sandwich, and took a large bite as I listened intently. Someone had taped an interview with her in the meeting room at the jail downtown, and they’d decided to air a few clips.

  I wolfed down the rest of my buttery sandwich and waffle fries dipped in barbeque sauce, then finished my lemonade before I filled the cup with filtered water from the fridge. I replaced the lid, took a large sip of lemon-flavored water through the red plastic straw, and exhaled deeply as the ice cold water hit my full stomach.

  I grabbed my phone and looked up available commercial spaces for rent and mentally calculated how much I could afford each month. I closed my eyes and dropped my head when I remembered how expensive my BMW payment was each month. Now that I’d lost the travel stipend provided by Swinger and Ames that would come straight from my pocket.

  I was also going to need a new Elizabeth. Someone who was bright, efficient, and didn’t get on my nerves. Liz was a great paralegal, and it would be difficult to find a suitable replacement.

  I narrowed the selection of rental spaces to under six thousand per month and was shocked at the dismal array of choices. Some had no central heat or air conditioning, which was unacceptable in Texas. Working heat we could do without, but air conditioning? Never.

  One squatty glass-front office building in a retail strip mall caught my eye as I scrolled through the pitiful properties. The address was actually what I noticed first. It was on West Mockingbird Lane, and I grinned as my mind instantly connected it with the literary attorney Atticus Finch from the classic novel To Kill A Mockingbird.

  The tattered green awning hinted at the former business’ name in white vinyl letters across the front, but it was too torn to read. Double glass doors sat in the center of the building. One rusted metal door handle dangled from one side, and the other door was boarded up with graffitied plywood. I clicked on the image to see more pictures, and was pleasantly surprised to see original hardwood floors and a glamorous entryway that had a dark wood bannister that led up three steps before it opened onto a wide platform. I swiped right to see the next picture, and discovered what the old, dingy building used to be.

  Three ragged swivel chairs with cracked red vinyl cushions and rusted chrome bottoms were affixed to the floor along each wall, each in front of a small mounted countertop. Both of the side walls of the upper platform were covered in floor-to-ceiling mirrors. At the entrance on the lower plane, four wooden chairs with faded orange cloth cushions were placed along each wall.

  An old barber shop. Interesting.

  Straight through the main floor of the retro shop was a hallway that led to a busted back door. On the left side of the dim hall, there was a restroom in relatively good condition. The floors appeared to be the original black-and-white checkerboard tile, and a fairly new, basic white sink had been installed below an oval beveled mirror. On the right side of the hall, there was a spacious storage room that would be perfect for cataloguing case files.

  The only problem was this seemingly ideal office space was located in Northwest Dallas, one of the worst neighborhoods to live or work in according to recent statistics.

  I leaned into the couch cushions and sighed as I scrolled through the photos again. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad area? I could at least give it a chance. It was really the best option available if I wanted to keep my costs low.

  I clicked the number on the site for Bradford Real Estate, cleared my throat, and waited as the phone rang a few times.

  “Dave Owens, Bradford Real Estate,” a bright tenor voice answered.

  “Hi, my name is John Stone. I found your listing for a commercial property, uh, the one on Mockingbird?”

  “Oh, yes, yes. That place is a diamond in the rough, I tell ya’,” the salesman responded.

  “Oh, great. Okay, well when can I look at it?”

  “Hmmm, how about 11 a.m. tomorrow morning? I can meet you on site, how does that sound?” The eager man replied.

  “That works,” I answered. I was glad that he was willing to meet me on short notice, and that I’d be able to move quickly if I liked the place.

  “Perfect. You said the name was John Stone? And what’s your phone number, you know, just in case?” The real estate agent inquired.

  I rattled off the numbers, and he repeated them back to me. “Yep, that’s it,” I confirmed.

  “Alrighty, chief, see you in the morning,” he said, then hung up the phone.

  Chief? If I were a child or an actual police or fire chief, that’d be one thing, but never call a grown man you don’t know chief.

  I shook my head as I set my phone down, then stood up and mentally reviewed my checklist of things to do that day. Find a new office was, I hoped, almost completed. The next item on the agenda was to find a new paralegal.

  Oh, boy. This would be fun. I’d never loved being in a supervisory position, but it was something I’d have to get used to quickly if I wanted to run a successful law firm.

  I grabbed my laptop from under my coffee table and typed in the website address for LegalHires, one of the most reliable employee search sites in the industry. At least that’s what they claimed in their colorful TV commercials.

  I created an employer account for John Stone Law, and silently stared and grinned stupidly at the name for a few seconds before I created a new company email address and completed the LegalHires profile. Then I typed up a brief overview of the position’s requirements: must be a certified paralegal and notary in the state of Texas, must have at least two years of experience, must be technologically savvy, and must understand the complexities of the Texas court filing system. Then I took a quick breath, hit the submit button and watched as the job post appeared in the open positions list. Well, that’s that. Another thing checked off the list, partially at least.

  Next, I went to the website for the IRS and began the tiresome task of applying for an employer identification number. When that was completed, I decided to have my new paralegal finish the rest of the tedious paperwork for the firm’s bylaws and certificate of formation.

  I needed to call my family’s financial consultant to discuss how to transfer funds from the inheritance my father had left in trust for me. I’d never needed to touch it before, but I was sure my mother would agree that this was an appropriate use of the legendary attorney Paul Stone’s money.

  I shut my eyes tightly and said a silent thank you to my late father. Without his posthumous support, I would never have been able to begin my solo career journey.

  Chapter 6

  That day flew by so quickly that by the time I checked my phone it was already four o’clock in the afternoon. I needed to talk to Claire first, but I also needed to consult with Sully. However, I had way too much going on in my head to have a coherent discussion with him that evening.

  I dialed Claire’s number, and it rang twice before a sweet, but nervous, voice answered, “Hey John, how’s everything going?”

  “Everything is going splendidly,” I answered jovially. “I had a meeting with Swinger this afternoon. It didn’t really go according to plan.”

  “Oh no,” she groaned. “What happened?”

  “Well, I’m no longer a member of Swinger and Ames, let’s just put it that way,” I said with a light chuckle.

  “What did you do?” The vixen exclaimed, and I heard a muffled woman’s voice in the background.

  “It’s all good, Claire. I left on my own terms” I tried to comfort her. “I’ll explain everything in person, but I wanted to let you know before you heard from someone else. It’s all going to work out just fine, okay?”

  “Dammit, John,” she responded softly. “We’ll have to talk about this more later. My sister is here. She’s going to stay over and have a little girls’ night with me. You know, chick flicks and ice cream sundaes, then I�
��m leaving for a conference in Pittsburgh in the morning. Are you free next week to chat?”

  “Sure,” I replied and smiled to myself. I made my own schedule now.

  “Great,” she responded quickly. “I’ll call you when I get back to town, okay?”

  “Sounds good to me,” I responded. “Have fun with your sister tonight, okay?”

  “Alright,” she sighed. “Talk to you next week then?”

  “You bet,” I answered, then clicked the red symbol to end the call.

  I checked the time before I set the phone on the glass coffee table. It had only been about ten minutes since I’d posted the open position for a paralegal, but I decided to check my email just in case I’d had any responses.

  I placed my laptop on my thighs, opened a new browser, and logged into my new company email for the very first time.

  I had seventeen new emails.

  Seventeen? Okay, two of them were those meaningless blanket welcome emails from the service provider, but fifteen were legitimate job post responses. This was both an exciting and daunting task ahead of me. I wished I had an assistant to help me hire my new assistant.

  I clicked on the first email and started to skim over the cover letter. The first guy was named Bradley Wilton. Brad studied in Arizona, went to law school for one year before he dropped out and became a certified paralegal. I let my eyes wander down the text. Self-described as a go-getter with strong leadership skills, but he had no work experience.

  Nope. Deleted. We only needed one boss in the office of John Stone Law.

  The next applicant had three typos in the first two sentences, so I deleted it immediately. If you can’t use proper grammar, especially when you applied for a job, then you can’t work for me. The next resume included a headshot of an overly made-up blonde woman who wore only a yellow bikini and showed all of her teeth to the camera. I sighed and skipped on to the next applicant. Only three of the fifteen resumes I reviewed seemed like they were sent by qualified people. I flagged them and hoped that a few more applicants showed interest before John Stone Law was up and running.

  I was startled when the six-foot-tall antique grandfather clock beside the door to my master bedroom chimed six times. How was it already six o’clock? I closed my laptop, set it on the coffee table, walked barefoot into the kitchen, and grabbed a cold bottle of Yuengling from the fridge. I popped the cap off with the bottle opener mounted to my center island, then headed back to the couch and flipped on the TV.

  I mindlessly surfed through the channels until I found an old action movie, Die Hard. Bruce Willis appeared on the screen covered in blood and sweat, as usual for his films, and called out to some unseen villain. I took a swig of beer and lounged back onto the couch as my eyes glazed over. I leisurely sipped my drink and let myself be sucked into the world of John McClane.

  I woke up to a pitch black room and felt around on the coffee table for my phone. I clicked the side button to illuminate the screen and read 6:07 a.m. I guess the stress from the previous day had taken more out of me than I’d realized.

  Since I didn’t have anything planned until 11 a.m., I decided to make a short visit to the gym. I’d been so busy with work lately that I hadn’t had time to go as often as I liked. I threw on some navy gym shorts and an old white Habitat for Humanity volunteer t-shirt, then grabbed my phone and a bottle of water from the fridge. I fished my earbuds out of a drawer in the kitchen, picked up my keys and gym membership card from the bowl on the entryway table, locked the door behind me, and headed toward the elevator.

  It opened only a few seconds after I’d called it, so I stepped in, pressed the ground floor button, and started to stretch. I bent down and touched my toes to stretch my hamstrings, then grabbed each foot one at a time behind my back and gently pulled to stretch each thigh muscle.

  The elevator doors slid open as they reached the ground floor, and I turned right to head toward the fitness center at the back of the building. The gym at Stonesthrow was a state-of-the-art facility that held twelve ellipticals, ten stationary bikes, fifteen treadmills, an assortment of free weights, and almost every type of exercise equipment I’d ever seen. Mirrors lined all four walls so you could always get a clear look at your form. They had kettlebells, yoga balls, and medicine balls, along with color coded systems for the weights. It was a spectacular display of modern ingenuity and vanity.

  I scanned my membership card at the entrance, grabbed a little blue towel from the front desk, and headed toward the elliptical. I’d get some cardio in before I hit the weights. I put in my earbuds, started my music app, and turned on a pumped up metal station. Classic metal from the 80s and early 90s always got my blood flowing.

  Angel of Death by Slayer cranked through my headphones, and I hopped on the elliptical, set the resistance to level four, and started to push forward. I cruised through an hour of metal-loaded cardio before I cooled down, wiped the sweat from my face and machine with the blue towel, and stepped off the elliptical. My legs felt like jelly as I wobbled over to the rest area and stretched out my aching muscles.

  When my legs finally felt reliable again, I selected two twenty-pound dumbbells and did a few bicep reps before I finished my workout with one hundred crunches and fifty sit-ups. I took several minutes to stretch out again after my workout, then chugged the rest of my water bottle, threw my nasty sweat towel in the laundry basket, and headed back upstairs to shower. I looked down to check the time on my phone as I pushed my way through the gym’s front door and ran straight into a petite Russian woman who wore head-to-toe black workout attire and large sunglasses that covered half of her face.

  “Oh, Mr. Stone,” she exclaimed and tried to back out of my path.

  “I-I am so sorry, Miss Volkov,” I stammered as I struggled to recover and not knock her over. “I should really look where I’m going.”

  “I should say so,” she huffed and preened her jet-black hair.

  “Again, I’m so sorry. How can I make it up to you?” I asked with a debonair smile. I hoped my sweat-drenched body wasn’t too much of a stinky turn off.

  “Well, I suppose you could buy me a drink some time, but I’d have to check my calendar and see where I could squeeze you in,” she said slyly and raised a perfectly shaped black eyebrow at me.

  “You just let me know,” I winked at her, then spun around and trucked down the hallway to the elevator.

  I pressed the call button and watched as the lift slowly descended to the lobby floor. Then I returned to my apartment, washed the stink from my body, and slipped into a caramel brown polo shirt and light khaki chino shorts.

  I filled a cup with water from the fridge, then sat down on the couch in front of my laptop and pulled it closer to me. I checked my email and saw that I had twenty new emails. I spent the next two hours sorting through applications and finally narrowed it down to the top five resumes. I glanced at the time at the top of my screen.

  10:15 a.m.

  The morning had passed so quickly that it was already time to leave and view what could potentially be my new office. I slipped on my brown Birkenstock flip flops and headed out the front door. I was a business owner now. I didn’t have to impress anyone with my fashion sense.

  I jumped on I-35 and headed toward Northwest Dallas. The late morning air was already scorching hot, and the sun beat down on my black car as I zipped down the interstate toward Mockingbird Lane. I put the address into my car’s GPS and let it guide me toward my destination.

  I arrived at a run-down shopping center that sat right on the edge of Mockingbird and left little room for parking. I noticed that a silver Acura sat in front of the building, so I carefully parked next to it and got out of my vehicle to survey the front of the building. Unfortunately, the online photo had accurately displayed the level of disrepair the property was in. The frayed awning danced in the wind, and a few pigeons made their nest in the top right corner. The boarded-up front door had a few gang signs carelessly sprayed on it. The only difference was that the
once-hanging silver door handle was now missing from the right front door.

  A burly man with slicked-back, well-greased dark hair emerged from the silver vehicle as he slipped a cell phone into his breast pocket. “You must be Mr. Stone,” the stocky man announced loudly over the roar of passing cars.

  “Sure am,” I replied and stuck out my hand to shake his. He gave me a perfectly rehearsed handshake: not too firm, not too loose, and definitely not damp.

  “Isn’t this place fantastic?” He asked overzealously and put his chubby fists on his hips.

  “Well, I’d call it more of a fixer upper, myself,” I grinned at him.

  “Come on, let’s check out the inside.”

  He led me through the only working door and into the sunken foyer of the former barber shop. The pungent scent of cleaning fluid and rubbing alcohol lingered in the air, but at least the place appeared to be clean. I ran my hand along the smooth wood of the bannister that led to the upper floor.

  “Is this wood original?” I asked and looked around at the immaculate oak flooring.

  “Yes, good eye,” he praised and swept his hands out in front of him to showcase the room. “All of the flooring, wood trim, and tile in the back is original to the building and in excellent condition.”

  “I really love the wood floors and accents,” I responded as I walked through the space and kept my eyes open for red flags.

  The portly realtor toddled over to one of the small counters behind a red and silver swivel chair, “Now, these can easily be removed, and you could divide this space up with cubicles if you need to.”

  “I prefer it open,” I said absently, as I strolled toward the back hallway to check out the bathroom and storage area. I was surprised to find the bathroom was spotlessly clean and even had a new soap dispenser on the sink. The storage area had two rickety metal utility shelves that leaned against the back wall, but was otherwise empty.