by Lane Hart
Retreating a step, Davenport says, "Don't worry about her inexperience or timidity. Ryan Warburton may technically be second chair in the courtroom, but he'll be running the show behind the scenes. He's got over a hundred trials under his belt. Page will just add a nice, feminine touch for media purposes."
Wow, so this pussy doesn't think his own daughter is capable of handling my case. He sounds like he just wants her to basically be arm candy for photo-ops. What a sexist prick. I might fuck more women than I can count, but I do know that just because someone has nice tits and a fine ass doesn't mean they can't do any job just as well as any man, maybe even better.
"Page already has some great ideas on how to go forward, and gave me a list of receipts and things to get her. She seems to really know her shit," I tell him. Why I feel defensive on her behalf, I have no fucking idea. Especially when my first thought seeing her was that she's just a snotty, spoiled, dumb blonde getting by on her daddy's coattails. I can occasionally admit when I'm wrong.
"Right. Well, I'm sure you need to get some rest after the hellish weekend you've had. Here's my card and Ryan's. Call either of us if you need anything." Davenport hands over two business cards, not bothering to offer me his daughter's, and then after a polite handshake, he's gone.
"So how do you feel about them?" my dad asks when we sit down in his Explorer in the parking garage.
"Davenport is an arrogant asshole who’s terrified of me, and his daughter thinks I'm a piece of shit rapist. But she seems like she's going to actually put in the effort."
"Don't worry about her. Miles assured me that Warburton is a top-notch defense attorney. As soon as he gets out of his murder trial in a few weeks he'll take over your case."
So Davenport had also convinced my dad that his daughter isn't capable of handling me. No wonder the girl comes across as such a frigid bitch if she has to deal with her own father's shit every day.
...
Page
I'm surprised the day after our first meeting when Jamie buzzes me around eleven a.m. to say Jackson Malone's up front and wants to see me. I tidy up my office so I can bring him in here and leave the door open instead of having to close us in a conference room together, then go to the lobby to get him.
"Mr. Malone?" I ask when I get to the waiting area. He rises from the chair with a bizarre masculine fluidity I've never witnessed before. Today he's dressed even more casually, in a pair of black nylon workout pants and a white tee stretched tight over his broad chest that say's Havoc in large bold letters, with Fight Club underneath. The "V" of the word Havoc is actually a detailed bird or griffin of some sort, and it looks like his wings are spread out and flexing like a man would flex his biceps. How cute.
I don't miss Malone's dark eyes drifting down my gray pants suit before they eventually come up and meet mine.
"I've got all that shit you wanted," he says, holding out a stack of papers and a thumb drive that I accept.
"Um, that was quick. Thanks."
I slip the thumb drive into my pocket, so I can flip through the pages to see what all he's rounded up. There are plane tickets, fight promotional flyers, hotel receipts, his own social media posts, and phone records with yellow highlights on a certain number, which I assume belongs to the accuser.
"Just for future reference, don't mark on any original documents," I warn him.
"Excuse the fuck out of me. I spent two goddamn hours going through this stack of shit, picking out her number from hundreds of other calls, trying to save you some time."
I jerk back from his hostility and fire back with my own, even though we're standing in the front lobby with onlookers. "Don't worry. I'm not hourly since you paid a flat fee, so even if it takes me hours, it won't cost you another penny."
"I don't give a shit about the fucking money," he snarls, his black eyes fiery like liquid lava. "Despite what you instantly judged and assumed from looking at me, I actually have plenty."
Based on the way our conversation is growing rather inflamed, I decide we both need a cool down period, but I still can't help taking another shot at him.
"Why don't I give you a few minutes to extract those wadded up panties that seem to be causing you some discomfort, and when you're ready to talk to me without the attitude Jamie will show you to my office," I tell him, pointing to the cowering receptionist behind her window before turning on my heel and storming back to my office. I pretend to ignore the muttered "itch" with a capital "B" that follows me down the hall.
That man is so freaking infuriating! Instead of going back in my office I march right on past it and don't stop until I get to the break room. I toss the papers down on the lunch table and then grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator, quickly twisting off the cap.
My brother, of course, chooses that moment to stroll in. "What's all the shouting about?" he asks before I can swallow my first sip. "You need some help?"
I roll my eyes and let out an annoyed huff, taking my time sipping my water, so he's forced to wait in silence for my response.
"I've got everything under control, Logie." I tack on the hated childhood nickname I gifted him, and smile to myself when he winces.
"Didn't sound like it," he says, leaning back against the countertop in front of me while crossing his arms over the front of his crisp white dress shirt. "Are you going to cry? Do you want me to take over the case for you?"
My jaw drops and my back straightens, bristling at his insinuation. "I am perfectly capable of handling that cocky jerk all on my own, thank you very much!" I can't help the screech caused when my teeth grind against each other. "Why do you even care? You don't practice criminal law, either. You're just a weeny patent lawyer."
He raises a light blonde eyebrow at my assertion before flashing both rows of his perfect white teeth. "I'm the best damn patent lawyer in the country, beanpole. And there's an office pool running on you."
"Are you kidding?" I ask, placing my hands on my hips. "For what exactly?"
"A variety of things." He laughs before he begins ticking them off on his fingers. "One, for how long it'll be before he makes you cry. Another is for how long before you fuck up. When you'll actually give up and quit. Oh, and one for how long before he fires the firm because you piss him off. So yeah, I think that's all of them."
I try really hard not to let the hurt show on my face, knowing he'll use it against me. The whole office doesn't think I can handle the angry criminal, or probably any other case, for that matter.
"So what are the bets?" I ask. I'm going to make sure I surpass them all.
"For crying, anywhere from today until Friday at the latest. Fucking up in the next forty-eight hours. On quitting, the bets range from today until next Monday. And on him firing us, well, we all give it less than a week."
Now I'm no longer hurt, I'm angry. I work with an office full of jerks. No wonder female attorneys haven't lasted longer than a year, two at the max, in this place. The men are dicks and the assistants are all gossiping hens…well, except for Jamie. I'm by God going to prove them all wrong, and I don't care what it takes. This jerk of a client is no different than the men I work with. I'll just have to finally show them that I'm actually tougher and smarter than I look.
My whole life it's always been, "Oh, Page made the honor roll? Well, Logan got a perfect score on his SAT." And "Page got into Georgetown? Well, Logan was offered a full scholarship when he got accepted." I'm so freaking tired of it!
Turning my back on my brother without another word, I pick up the stack of documents and glance through them while heading back to my office. That's when I notice the screen shot of Christina Loftis's Facebook page.
He'd actually found it.
I have to admit that he's done a good job gathering everything he could in less than a day's time.
I pause in the middle of the hallway to close my eyes and replay our most recent conversation. Malone had flipped out on me after my criticism for marking on potential exhibits. There was no way he'd kno
w that, having never done this sort of thing before now. He was probably pissed that after all the time and hard work he'd put in that the first thing I did was snap at him. Of course he got all defensive. That's what he does for a living. Okay, so now that I understand that I'll try not to be so quick to attack him again.
My eyes are still on the paperwork in my hand when I get back to my office. I'm lowering my bottom down into my computer chair before I realize I'm not alone.
"Ah!" I squeal, fumbling to hold on to the stack of documents.
"About time," Malone grumbles from the chair he's currently slouching in across from my desk.
"Geez Louise, you scared me," I say, holding the papers to my galloping heart.
"Everything okay in here?" Mark, our federal criminal attorney, asks from my open doorway. He purses his lips like he's trying not to grin, but epically fails when a snicker escapes.
"Perfectly fine. Now run along, imp," I mutter, getting back up from my chair to go slam the door in the annoying dwarf's face. I swear the man's only a few inches taller than Peter Dinklage, and tells more dirty offensive jokes than Daniel Tosh.
"Listen," I say to Malone when I take my seat again. "There's an office pool going that I don't intend for anyone to win."
"A pool?" he asks, slanting his thick black eyebrows together. Somehow they're actually sexy as all get out, and nothing like Bert's on Sesame Street.
"Yeah, my lovely coworkers are betting on me. You, too, actually."
Malone leans back in his chair, both hands behind his head with his elbows out. Can the man do anything without making it look sexy? "Really? What's the bet?" He asks.
"How soon before you make me cry, how soon before I screw up, how soon I'll quit your case, and how soon you fire me."
"Well damn," he mutters. "You a crier or something?"
"No, I'm not a crier! I've never shed a tear in this office, and can’t recall the last time I shed one at all."
Although, it was most likely when I was around ten or eleven years old. I'd found a litter of newborn kittens near the dumpster behind our Methodist Church. After my parents and I dropped them off with a local vet because they wouldn't let me keep them, I told them I wanted to save puppies and kittens when I grew up. In response my mom said, "No, Page. You're too smart and pretty to shovel shit for strays. You're going to marry a rich man." And my dad followed up her statement with, "Or you can go to law school just like your brother." That had been it, my only two options, end of discussion. It was the first time I realized my life would never actually be my own if I didn't want to disappoint them. Any variation from their decree, and to them I'd be a failure. That pressure's only gotten worse as I've gotten older.
"But all your coworkers think I'm going to make you cry?" Malone asks.
"Yep."
"That's pretty fucked up."
"Tell me about it," I agree with a burst of laughter. "So, here's what we're going to do. I'm not going to cry and I'm going to try to be nicer to you. You're going to stop yelling at me, and we're going to work together on your case, so that everyone else in this building can go screw themselves. Deal?" I ask.
He looks at me a second before he finally nods. "Deal."
"So," I say with a deep calming breath. "You found her on Facebook?"
"Yeah, I tracked her down from her liking my fan page. She apparently doesn't know how to make her shit private since I could see all her posts and pictures. There were several photos of me on there, prior to last weekend. I printed them out, along with her comments."
"This is good stuff," I tell him honestly. I start spreading everything out into piles based on separate categories. One for receipts, one for phone records, and one for Facebook.
I read each page before putting it in the appropriate stack, closely reviewing the victim's Facebook profile and posts for anything that might be helpful. I do a double take when I get to a picture of Jackson. My cheeks warm, looking at such a revealing photo while actually sitting in front of the man.
The black and white photo is...breathtaking. Every single line of his smooth, sculpted chest, arms, stomach and… legs is clearly shown. Feet shoulder width apart, only his two hands cupping himself block his privates from the camera. His head is hung, chin to his chest like there's an enormous invisible weight on his lethal shoulders.
Under the photo is a comment by Christina Loftis, "Even yummier in person and tastes divine."
Wow.
So maybe his ego isn't as inflated as I first thought, or at least not without merit. Hell, if this is what he looks like naked then I'm surprised a stampede of women aren't currently running through our building to get to him.
"Find something you like?" the arrogant jerk asks.
I shuffle on through to the next few pages. "I'm just…reviewing them, you know…to see if ah, there's anything helpful," I stutter.
"If you need me to undress for you to confirm that those are, in fact, pictures of me, well, I'm happy to oblige," he says. I can practically hear his smirk.
"That won't be necessary," I assure him even though my body completely disagrees.
"I don't have to take advantage of anyone to get some ass. If I posted, 'I'm horny' and listed this address on Twitter to my more than two million followers, plenty of women would show up, ready to fuck me any way and as many times as I want. Faster service than a Domino's Pizza delivery. So why would I do something as stupid as rape a woman?"
Holy guacamole. After seeing that picture, I knew he wasn't bluffing. He's probably the one responsible for the sudden influx of female fans to MMA over the last few years. That doesn't mean he didn't overpower this woman against her will this time, or choke her during.
"That brings up something important we need to discuss. While this case is pending, you shouldn't be seen with any women in public, and you certainly shouldn't…engage in intercourse with anyone," I tell him.
He scoffs. "You can't be serious." When I don't respond he eventually asks, "How long are we talking?"
Looking up, I quickly run the timeline in my head. “Depending on when we get all the discovery from the district attorney, how soon he goes to the grand jury, and when the judge decides to put the case on the trial calendar, a few months at least."
"Months!" he exclaims, his dark eyebrows reaching for the ceiling.
"Yes, months. Do you really want copycats coming forward with more accusations? Preparing for a trial takes time. We'll get ready as soon as we can, but we have to get your direct testimony and cross-examination ready and practiced. You'll need to decide on a few character witnesses. I may need to hire a medical expert to review the victim's records and injuries, and have you mentally evaluated. I'll want to interview the officers involved. There's a ton to do."
"How do you expect me to go for months without getting laid? My dick has high expectations and demands. He's a hardheaded, overeager bastard that gets angry when he's denied servicing for longer than a day."
I try not to smile at his way too detailed description.
"I'm sure you and your…dick will survive the famine. Also, do I really have to tell you not to use any drugs or get drunk in public?"
"For Christ's sake, woman, I'm a professional athlete! I don't ever touch any of that shit," he replies.
"Well, good for you," I say, surprised by his statement. "But don't start now because of the stress of all that's going on."
"If I can't fuck and I can't fight, then I guess I'll be doing a shitload of training."
"That should be fine," I agree. "As long as you're available when I call and need information from you, or for you to come in to do some trial prep work. This case has to be the most important thing in your life for the next few months."
"I get that. If we lose, I'm out of the cage for good."
"Not only that, but these are very serious offenses. If you get convicted you could get an active sentence of up to three hundred months …"
"Three hundred months! What the fuck!?!" he yells, practic
ally coming out of his seat.
"That's just for the rape charge. Add another maximum of twenty months if you're convicted on the assault by strangulation charge."
"Goddamn! What the hell is three hundred and twenty months?" he asks, his forehead so furrowed trying to do the math that he looks like he's in pain.
"A little less than twenty-seven years."
Malone’s face goes slack, his tan skin turns pale white, and then he really is out of his chair, scrambling for the small black trash can beside my desk.
In that moment I feel an unexpected twinge of sympathy for him. He's known for being a tough, badass fighter, and at the moment he's on his knees losing all the contents of his stomach. He almost looks…vulnerable.
I grab a few tissues from the dispenser on my desk and hand them to him when it sounds like he's finished. He eventually accepts my offering, looking up at me with dark, watery eyes, seeming more like a scared boy than a violent criminal.
"You can't let them convict me," he pleads. "I swear I didn't do it."
I have to look away from his sad, pitiful, puppy dog eyes before they suck me in. I'm still a sucker for strays. "Those are just the maximum sentences. You know, the worst case scenario sentences. With a clean record and a decent judge, you might only get the minimum of a hundred and fifty-four months. A little less than thirteen years," I say, doing the math for him.
"Thirteen…fuck! I wouldn't get out until I'm forty fucking years old," he mutters, hanging his head while wiping off his mouth.
Eventually he rises gracefully to his feet and sits back down in his chair with hunched shoulders. I go around my desk and pick up the smelly trash can, taking it out in the hallway for my fellow coworkers to enjoy. Ha! Take that you bastards.
"It's important for you to understand what you're facing upon conviction,” I tell Jackson as I return to my seat. “Because if the prosecutor offers a plea deal to a lesser offense like assault on a female with just a few years active, it's worth considering."
"I'm not pleading guilty," he says gruffly.
"Even though serving three or four years is a heck of a lot better than twenty-seven or thirteen years?" I ask in disbelief.