The Last Chance Lawyer

by William Bernhardt

  “Then why be there?”

  “Because I want to practice law, not fill out forms and handle administrative crap.”

  “So you use them. Just like you probably use women. But you’re not really with them.”

  “Hold on, Nessie. I may be single, I may not want to burden myself with constant discontent, but I do not use women. Ever. I respect and love women. I want everyone to be happy.”

  “Is that why you asked me out? To make me happy?”

  He popped an oyster into his mouth. “I was hoping the happiness would be mutual.”

  “Is this the part where you try to lure me back to your apartment?”

  “Boat.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I live on a boat. Big sailboat. The Defender.”

  “You live on it?”

  “Keeps down the rent. Don’t have to worry about mowing the lawn. Completely guarantees you don’t become a hoarder. Wanna see it?”

  She tossed her head to the side. “I have to admit, I’m curious.”

  He smiled and raised a hand. “Check, please.”

  Chapter 6

  Dan’s eyes opened. He was in bed, on the sailboat.

  Quick bed check. Nope, he was alone. He tried to retrace the previous night through his pre-caffeinated haze. She had come back with him after dinner, mostly out of curiosity, but she left quickly and he didn’t try to stop her. Third date, maybe. First date, he’d be a gentleman.

  He checked his phone. He spotted a text from John Stoddard, managing partner at the firm. Wanted to see him in Conference Room Three. The big one. Ten a.m. sharp.

  He closed his eyes. Stoddard must’ve heard about the big win in court, or more importantly, how much money he’d brought into the firm’s coffers. Probably had some kind of party or reception planned. Hail the conquering hero.

  His life was everything he’d ever dreamt it would be. He wished his father had lived to see this. Despite a few missteps here and there, he’d made a success of himself.

  His life was perfection. Right?

  DAN LOVED EVERYTHING about kiteboarding. The wind whipped his face and the sun chapped his skin and the saltwater spray made his eyes water. Paradise.

  He liked to push himself, which he supposed was what drove him to extreme activities. Nothing excited him as much as trying something new. In the last six months, he’d surfed at least once a week, zip-lined over the canopy of the Costa Rican rainforest, caved on Kauai, scuba-dived at Turtle Bay, jumped out of an airplane at ten thousand feet, and kissed a dolphin (long story).

  But kiteboarding was his new favorite. Basically, he harnessed the power of the wind with a large controllable kite that propelled him across the water on a board, similar to a surfboard, but smaller. He preferred to go freestyle—no foot straps or bindings. He loved to get “big air,” jumps so high he could try tricks while airborne. He had managed a 360 flip. Next time he wanted to do it and land on the board.

  This morning, he used a smaller twintip board and a first-rate kite to get good boost and hangtime. His goal was to set a new St. Pete speed record. So far as he knew, no one around here had cracked fifty knots yet. Why shouldn’t he be the first?

  As far as he was concerned, that’s what life was about. Being the first. Being the best. Staying unchained and untethered, as free as the kite in the sky.

  Boundless. Right?

  AFTER HE PUT HIS GEAR away, he drove to work. He took I-175 almost all the way in his convertible 911 Turbo S Cabriolet Porsche with the top down, enjoying the perpetually perfect St. Pete weather, feeling the breeze and inhaling the smell of the ocean. Perfection. That’s what he kept telling himself. He had built a life of boundless perfection.

  He entered the lobby of his firm, Friedman & Collins, striding like Caesar returning to Rome after crossing the Rubicon. I came, I saw, I devastated.

  He was not impressed by the response. He stopped at the receptionist’s station. The receptionist was a British woman named Gemma, cute in a bad-teeth sort of way, and he usually bantered and flirted a little on his way in. This time, as he approached, she quickly grabbed the phone receiver and acted as if she were talking to someone, though when he glanced at the phone bank, he noticed that none of the extension buttons were lit.

  He rounded the corner and approached his assistant’s station, now a bit more guarded. Before he had even spoken, he could tell Kathy was uncomfortable.

  He decided to take the full-frontal, oblivious-to-the-world approach. “You heard about the case?”

  She nodded, her left eye twitching slightly. “I definitely heard about the case. Congratulations, Dan. Another notch on your belt.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” Something was definitely amiss. There was an elephant in the room and his assistant knew its name—but he didn’t.

  For that matter, as he glanced around the office, he got the distinct impression that everyone was looking the other way. He’d expected to be met with congratulations and accolades. Instead, he was getting more of a pariah vibe.

  Kathy cleared her throat. “I think John wants you in Conference Room Three.”

  “I know. Should I wear a party hat?”

  “Probably best if you just...get it over with.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that at all. He left his backpack in his office, admired the beach view for a moment, grabbed a legal pad, and headed for Conference Room Three.

  IT WAS NOT A PARTY. He was only three minutes late, but all eight senior partners were seated around the table, not talking, not smiling, including the most senior of them all, Barry Friedman, who gave the firm its first name. Friedman didn’t even come into the office most days—he was well into his seventies. But he was here today.

  And he was not smiling. Hair dyed black. Reagan uniform—blue suit, red tie. Missed a spot shaving. Rolex watch.

  John Stoddard, the managing partner, sat at the far end of the table. Immaculate suit, Brooks Brothers. Gold tie clip. Obvious perm. iPad on display, though he probably couldn’t use it. Good with clients, though mentally negligible.

  Stoddard had never liked him. Probably thought Dan was lower class, since Stoddard came from old money. Always seemed to have a deprecating expression when they talked. Smirky McSmirkface.

  There was an empty chair at the opposite end of the table, obviously reserved for him.

  “Please take a seat,” Stoddard said.

  Dan did as instructed. And then he noticed the most ominous clue of all—no granola bars. When he joined the firm, he’d objected to the Krispy Kremes laid out at every meeting. Fried dough, horrible for you. He suggested granola bars. Made some low-fat macarons for those needing a little sweetness.

  Scanning the table, he saw no granola bars, much less macarons. The doughnuts were back.

  A very bad sign indeed.

  Stoddard cleared his throat. “Are you feeling okay, Dan?”

  He beamed. “Moister than an oyster. What’s up?”

  “I’m afraid we have something...serious to discuss. Serious and rather...unpleasant.”

  Just get to the point already, you weasel. “You did hear that I won the case yesterday, right?”

  “We all know that, yes.”

  “In fact, I destroyed the prosecution so thoroughly they didn’t even submit the case to the jury. They just folded.”

  “We heard that as well.”

  “Our client was extremely pleased and—”

  Stoddard interrupted him. “Yes. Your client.”

  He craned his neck. “He’s so pleased he’s going to have our fee hand-delivered today.”

  Stoddard nodded. “He’s already done that. The money arrived first thing this morning. All in cash.” He exchanged some side-eye with his fellow partners.

  “So I assume everyone is jubilant,” he continued, almost tongue-in-cheek, since it was obvious that no one at this table was jubilant. “We provided our client with a fantastic defense. And he paid his bill. Isn’t that our business model? Isn’t th
at how we define success?”

  Friedman opened a manila folder resting on the table, his hands trembling slightly. “There’s more to it than that, Dan.”

  “We won. And winning is everything.”

  Friedman stared at his hands. “No, winning is not everything.”

  Stoddard cut in. “Have you listened to the news this morning, Dan?”

  “I’m afraid I haven’t had time.”

  “Well, you should. There was a horrible shootout last night, in the tourist district, not far from the Trademark Hotel. Looks like some kind of gang confrontation got out of control. Six people were shot. One person is dead.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. That’s horrible.”

  “It’s more than horrible. It’s...disastrous.”

  His brow knitted. “I don’t want to seem heartless, but this is Florida. We do have gangs, we do have drugs, and I don’t think that’s a newsflash to anyone.”

  Stoddard cleared his throat. “The police are still gathering information. The investigation is in its preliminary stages. But it appears that one of the major players in this blood-soaked drama”—he drew in his breath—“was your client. Emilio Lòpez.”

  Now he saw where this was going. He was normally ten steps ahead, but this morning, he was two steps behind.

  Stoddard continued. “Looks like your client wanted to have some kind of...celebration. Mixed with business, of course. A rival gang was not so excited that their ace competition, your client, was back on the street. Shooting ensued.”

  “This is a terrible event, I agree. And my thoughts and prayers go out to the families of those who were hurt. But from a business standpoint...Emilio does have us on retainer. If he or any of his buddies are charged, they’ll come to us for representation. And that could be worth—”

  Friedman pounded his fist on the table, startling everyone. “No, he will damn well not be coming to my law firm for representation.”

  Stoddard laid his hand on Friedman’s forearm, trying to calm him. Friedman looked as if he might stroke out at any moment. “Dan,” Stoddard explained, “we will not be taking that case. We will not be taking any more business from this man.”

  “Are you kidding? Emilio is a gold mine. Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”

  Stoddard looked as if he had an unpleasant taste in his mouth and couldn’t get rid of it. “I just texted you a photograph, Dan. Take a look.”

  He pulled out his phone. His lips parted. His stomach roiled.

  It was obviously a crime-scene photo. The victim was a young girl, maybe fifteen. Blood covered her entire body and pooled around her head. Her limbs were twisted at an unnatural angle.

  He set the photograph down, trying to keep his hand steady. He’d seen crime-scene photos before, of course. But this was beyond dreadful. And the age of the victim didn’t make it any better.

  “This is one of the victims of the...incident?”

  “She’s in critical condition. She may survive, but the recovery will be long and she may have brain damage.” He paused. “Her name is Mandy Donahue.”

  “As in—?”

  “That’s right. As in Alan Donahue. Donahue Petroleum, the largest offshore driller in the state—and our five-hundred-pound gorilla. Best client we have. Best client we ever had. What she was doing in the middle of this mess, no one knows yet. Maybe she was just out with friends and got caught in the crossfire. Or maybe she was being a teen rebel and hanging with some bad characters. But the point is, this tragedy would never have occurred except that a member of this firm got a vicious gangster released by employing a courtroom stunt.”

  So the managing partner was concerned about the bottom line. Completely on-brand. “That’s my job, John.”

  “Every lawyer has to temper his duty to represent his client with common sense. And common decency.”

  “I had no way of knowing this would occur.”

  “You had no idea this...Emilio was involved with gangs?”

  “Half the criminal defendants in this town are involved with gangs. That doesn’t mean anything.”

  “And you had no idea he had been linked to previous crimes?”

  He remembered what Jazlyn had told him the previous day. “I’ve heard some rumors...”

  Friedman shook his head, as if lost in an uncomprehending daze. “We cannot have this,” he mumbled quietly. “I built this firm from nothing, and I didn’t do it so we could be known throughout the state as child murderers.”

  “No one is going to blame us for—”

  “What the hell would you know about it? Some people already blame us. Some people always blame the lawyers. I won’t have this. I never thought we should handle criminal law in the first place.”

  “You wanted a full-service firm. That’s why you brought me onto the team.”

  “The team?” Stoddard said. “When did you ever care about the team? You never work with anyone else, much less consult anyone or toss any hours their way. You’re a kingdom unto yourself who just happens to have an office here, probably so we can handle all the grunt work while you play courtroom superstar.”

  He decided to let that slide. “I think you’re angry because this case is in the newspapers and that doesn’t comport with your Old-School vision of the firm as some New-York-brownstone affair with white Harvard graduates sipping Earl Grey from china teacups.”

  Stoddard raised his hands. He appeared to be trying to keep the meeting professional, but the dam was breaking. “Dan, we’ve already taken a vote, and we’ve decided that it would be best if you were not a member of this firm.”

  “You’re joking. You’re firing me...for being really good at what I do? For being too profitable to the firm?”

  “We aren’t accepting any of the...cash ...your client delivered.”

  “That’s insane. You’re just throwing me to the dogs? No severance package? Not even an Edible Arrangements bouquet?”

  “You keep Emilio’s money. We don’t want it. You’ll also get a fair distribution package, something resembling the bonus you would’ve likely received at the end of the year. We don’t want any hard feelings.” He inhaled slowly. “We just don’t want you to have anything to do with this firm. Ever again.”

  “You’re making me the scapegoat to protect yourselves. Has the press release gone out yet?”

  “We are simply doing what we think is best for the long-term reputation of the firm. We would appreciate it if you cleaned out your desk today. I don’t know that you’re doing any work for any of the cornerstone firm clients. You keep all your pending cases, keep all your existing clients...and just get the hell out of here. As soon as possible.”

  Chapter 7

  Dan pointed a finger at the bartender. Another mule, his eyes said. Pronto.

  He dominated his barstool at Beachcombers like it was his own private office. Maybe it should be his own private office, he thought, now that he didn’t have an office. What couldn’t he manage from here? He had a phone in his pocket. He could bring in a laptop. They had Internet connectivity and they must have a printer somewhere. Or he’d get one of those portable Canon jobs. What else did he need?

  He certainly didn’t need those stuck-up snobs downtown. He should’ve gone out on his own a long time ago. He should be thanking them for giving him the push he needed to jumpstart his solo practice. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Thanking them.

  Except he wasn’t thanking them. He didn’t want a solo practice. He wanted to be a lawyer, but he didn’t want to be buried under paperwork and bookkeeping. He just wanted to do his job. And he didn’t need the ignominy of being fired from the top firm in town, either.

  The bartender brought his drink with a smile, but the smile had a pronounced edge. “Need me to call a taxi?”

  “No. But thanks for asking.”

  “You don’t want to get into trouble.”

  He understood the man’s concern. He had been here since the sun went down and was still here as the clock approached m
idnight. For all he knew, he might still be here when the sun came up again. But he could walk back to the boat. Another thing he loved about Beachcombers—it was one of the few 24/7 bars in St. Pete. Made sense, since they were only a short walk from the pier. Boats came in at all hours of the night.

  “Just keep them coming.” He could be drinking down at Chez Guitano, but that watering hole was way too upscale. Everyone at the bar was either a con man, a hooker, or a pickup artist. Beachcombers had the real people.

  Like the real person sitting to his left, belching and finding it just as amusing as a ten-year-old might. African-American. Jean jacket. Chain belt. Bow legs. Excessive tattooing. He looked to be about 270, maybe 280 pounds, but whatever was needed to intoxicate that body weight he had imbibed a long time ago.

  “Rough day?”

  The man responded with a mysterious combination of chuckle and sneer. “Damn straight. Lost my job.”

  “Me too, as it happens.”

  “For real?” He made the sound again. “Must be somethin’ goin’ around. Third job for me in three months.”

  “Is that a record?”

  “Record for big hot mess.”

  “Why’d you lose the job?”

  “Boss says I was drunk. But I wasn’t.”

  “Hadn’t been drinking?”

  “Well, I didn’t say that. Might’ve had a snort or two at lunch. But I certainly wasn’t drunk. I mean, after what happened last night, who could blame a man for needing a drink? The boss was out to get me. He’s been on my case since the day I started. Oughtta be something you can do about someone like that. Aren’t there laws? Can’t I sue him?”

  “Anyone can sue. But you wouldn’t win. Florida is an employment-at-will state. Bosses don’t need a cause. They can fire anybody they want for any reason they want, or for no reason at all.”

  “That sucks.”

  “It’s the law.”

  The large man signaled the bartender for another shot. “You sound pretty smart.” His speech slurred, but not so badly as to be incomprehensible. “You some kind of lawyer or judge or something?”