I revved Elvis and whipped into traffic. I aimed straight for the Courthouse. I drove okay, but it felt like my toes were plugged into an electric outlet.
I tensed with every traffic sign, every tree, every chocolate truffle I unwrapped and popped into my mouth. When I finally turned into the Courthouse and down the underground driveway, I paused long enough to swipe my keycard. I held my breath while the garage door slowly lifted. I commanded my foot to push gas and enter the dark garage, but it balked. I ordered my hands to steer, but evidently, I was no longer in charge. I hated that more than anything.
With some fancy self-talk and a white-knuckles grip on the steering wheel, I planned to dial 911 if Donnettelli approached me in any way, for anything. I pulled into my assigned parking spot and rested my forehead on the steering wheel. Eyes closed, I counted backward and outlined my options.
“Ten: Act as if nothing has happened.” Breathe. That’s a chicken-shit option. Negative.
“Nine: Find out what Orders Laurel signed for Donnettelli.” Breathe. Better.
“Eight: Figure out if stocks were sold because of her decision.” Breathe. But once I know a crime has been committed I’m obligated to report it. Hmm. Chicken-shit may be underrated.
“Seven: Figure out if the SEC would be interested, and if they are, how to protect Laurel and Michael—maybe a deal that hangs Donnettelli and saves them?” Breathe. Investigate before I know for sure they need protection and have something credible I can point at Donnettelli.
“Six: Figure out how to stay safe and not abandon my integrity by reverting it to my original Order.” At the thought of the grieving families of asbestos victims, a cold chill skittered over me. I shook it off. Breathe.
“Five: Follow my oath to uphold the law no matter what.”
“Four: Find Donnettelli’s gun.” Breathe. Damn. Find his gun before his gun finds me. Or Laurel. Or some other innocent person.
“Three: Consider if there’s enough evidence against Donnettelli to bring him down. Will it look like sour Courthouse grapes and not evidence?” Breathe.
“Two: Can we wait the years an investigation will take after we report him?” Breathe.
“One: Damn, damn, damn. Changing my asbestos-case Order like Donnettelli wants means a life-wrecking corporation gets away with stealing stuff, killing people, destroying families. And, if I don’t change it, he sets up Laurel for something he did. That makes me the reason Laurel and Michael go to prison.” No way in hell do I play with the devil, no matter the threat. Breathe.
“Zero: Decision made.” I lifted my head from the steering wheel and grabbed my cell. Breathe. Swiftly I texted Judges Laurel and Palene: I’m off to a new adventure. I leave the Courthouse in your capable hands. I’m hanging up my robe for good.
I hit send.
I revved the engine, reversed, and headed toward the door, ready to scan my keycard one last time.
But Jose, the head of the cleaning crew, stood in the storage closet near the keycard scanner.
I pretended to have an ounce of self-control left and slowed.
“Hello, Judge,” he called out. He dumped the recycling into a pick-up bin and waved to me.
I leaned out the window and returned the wave.
“You are leaving late as always.” He stuffed some papers in his pocket and waved again. “You work too hard. Relax. Enjoy what is left of your evening.”
“Damn great night,” I shouted. “I’m leaving forever.”
He looked concerned.
Jose had always been good to me. For him, I ratcheted up my smile to fifteen-thousand lumens. “I’d rather be a hairdresser.”
And just like that, the weight of the blackmail-infested world was off my shoulders. I’d open my own high-end salon. Hair had gotten me through law school. Hair could be controlled. Hair, I understood. You just needed to know how to make the scissors sing and never ever run out of hairspray.
Chapter Six
The second I got home, I wasted no time calling my Court Reporter, Trisha. I told her I’d quit and asked her to tell the staff and explain I’d call them later. Donnettelli wasn’t above going after them just to get back at me.
I offered to help them find new positions away from the blackmailing maniac. They said they understood, agreed with the danger-and-leaving aspect, and offered to pack my things and deliver them.
Another issue was getting my Order on the Manville case put back. Sebastian was still in Australia, but we found a way to mesh time zones enough for a face-to-face internet chat.
I told him about Donnettelli holding me elevator-hostage and hijacking my Order. It hit him hard. My tough-as-railroad-spikes lawyer felt deeply about anything that hurt me and was equally empathetic about Plaintiff’s, who were injured in any way at the hands of unscrupulous corporations.
So, when I asked him to write a cease-and-desist letter to Donnettelli to let him know he would not get away with changing Orders or messing with victims I tried to protect, Sebastian agreed, and also demanded a reversion of the Manville Order to my original. He made it clear that Donnettelli would follow the law, or we would call in every law enforcement agency possible, including legislators and the media. Coming from a position of strength is the only thing Donnettelli understood. So Sebastian sent a copy to everyone we could think of: the State Bar Association, the Attorney Grievance Commission, the Judicial Tenure Commission, and the State Court Administrator’s Office. I felt relieved to have taken action and exposed Donnettelli.
But—ever the realist—Sebastian couldn’t keep from predicting it would lead to endless disasters. Once I’d left the bench, I couldn’t change the Order myself, but I could get my lawyer to send a damned letter. I vowed I wouldn’t let Donnettelli get away with short-shrifting those already suffering from mesothelioma.
I was off to a start on a new life. Donnettelli’s treachery was being addressed, my lifelong dream for my own luxury salon had been upgraded to reachable goal status, and—by week’s end—my once-Courthouse-staff had taken team spirit to a whole new level.
My staff kept in contact with me, triple-checking I was okay and offering to help me with anything I needed. They spent the week organizing my files and the a few things I’d left behind.
Trisha could have immediately retired, but on Friday, all three delivered my possessions with a giant salad with all the fixings, including a choice of chicken and beef. Seated at my kitchen table for coffee and lunch, Trisha, Margo, and Violet took turns brandishing their impressive qualifications with each swearing their lifelong dream was to work in a luxury hair salon—with me. I hired Trisha and Margo, and I had a better idea for Violet.
Margo offered to take any stylist training I’d pay for. She would be my Woman-Friday. She wouldn’t only cut hair but would maintain all stations and supplies. She’d even shampoo customers, who were waiting. An idea I appreciated.
She didn’t want to do the heavy cleaning, so we hired Jose and Wanda, the same couple who did my house, to clean the salon and café. I’d known Jose for a long time from the Courthouse and was happy with the arrangement. Margo was fine with sweeping up for stylists and washing towels and other daily chores. I had to smile.
Trisha, my very Irish Court Reporter, would now be my receptionist, scheduler, and business manager for the salon, the eventual head to toe services spa my salon would morph into if successful, and my adjoining café. My new career plan had lifted off.
Trisha would make my life and businesses coordinate and run smoothly, much as she had done in the Courthouse. I couldn’t say no to such planning by people I not only respected but trusted. My former staff was taken care of, and that was a big relief. Reorganizing my life felt like a whirlwind and before I knew it, a week had passed since I’d left the Courthouse.
My staff and I had turned my kitchen into our war room, and my new business was conceived, constructed, incorpora
ted, and licensed in every sense of the word. I hand-selected café staff from among my best legal students, who’d still be available for a year or two until they were licensed. We were on schedule to open in a little over six months, July 15th.
I reinvented my life. I kept the essentials—my freedom, my integrity, my lawyer boyfriend Sebastian, and my friends. I was even okay that my ex had our boys with him in Colorado—for a short time—so I could focus on this new, exciting, chance-taking business venture. The legal documents, business contracts, and any other distracting paperwork was left in Sebastian’s capable hands. He’d returned from his jaunt in Australia and jumped at the chance to hire Violet for his law office.
Still, I had a bazillion tasks to complete. I had to rummage through the filing cabinet in the hidden closet off the hallway near my bedroom. It was behind a set of sliding bookcases and held our family history, important papers, my sons’ childhood treasures, anything I didn’t want to lose.
I clambered over a trunk of Halloween costumes, crates of boys’ toys, and boxes of law books until I found my ancient-history hairdresser’s license. And that was nothing compared to the hunt for just the right building.
I knew I didn’t want to be too far from home, but there was still a lot of territory to cover. It had to be a primo location with plenty of parking.
After several weeks of concerted looking, I feared I’d fallen into a bad Goldilocks remake. Every building we looked at—Trisha, Margo, Sebastian, and I—was too big or too narrow or too expensive, needed too much work, or just plain ugly.
By the end of January, after seeing just about every available space in the county, I was frustrated. I thought we’d never find a building.
Chapter Seven
February 15th at breakfast time, Trisha texted me, then called me, and then tooted her distinctive car horn outside my front door. Within minutes, I’d grabbed a parka and climbed into the front passenger seat. She had a building to show me.
We were off. Clinging to the strap with one hand while the other braced against the dashboard, I vowed this was my last Trisha-carnival-ride.
In the back seat, Margo remained remarkably silent—my clue something was amiss. She had undergone a major life makeover after she’d bailed out of the Courthouse. Classic JC Penney nine-to-five Margo had morphed into ‘Victoria’s Secret-meets-Nike high tops, dressed at the Barbie Sparkle Studio.’ When I turned back to meet her eyes, I realized she was petrified into silence. I kept waiting for her to blink—
We jerked to a stop in the parking lot on the corner of Michigan and Homer. “What do you say?” Trisha cried, the Irish equivalent of voilà.
“Is this for sale?” I ogled the exquisite building that ran the length of a city block. I hoped the roof was intact under the weight of hanging icicles and layers of snow. The long building had formerly housed a luxury jewelry store and a high-end surf-and-turf.
Carved oak double doors, a covered entrance, and elegant awnings said this was the place to be. We walked around the back and found ample parking and side drives on both ends. It looked as if the property was a square block. Ideal. But there was no for-sale sign or any other reason to think the building was available.
Trisha dangled the key, and we hastened toward the oh-so-elegant double doors. “My neighbor just inherited it. Told me he’s placing it on the market as soon as Probate is approved.” She turned the lock. “Let’s take a look.” Trisha pushed the door open and then motioned me to be the first inside.
Flabbergasted, I could hardly wait to get inside, and giant stepped through the threshold. The building looked like a warehouse for the rich and famous. Margo pulled a notepad from her purse and sketched as we called out where the reception area would be and how it could lead into the work area with room for offices and a kitchen and storage in back with space left to grow into.
The rear exit led to the parking lot, and I was sure it was wide enough to stream drive-thru vehicles to the other side of the building. Perfect for the café I’d always dreamed of owning. “Let’s investigate the other end,” I said, and my team trooped behind me.
I explained what I was thinking: a salon, eventually a spa area in the back, and a café where the restaurant had been with an added drive-thru window. Everybody agreed. Margo’s busy hands continued to make notes while I spoke. I noticed she’d drawn rough drawings in the margins. She pulled up the calculator on her phone and pressed in numbers.
“This could cost a bundle.” She held out her calculator with six hefty digits spread across it. She showed Trisha the numbers, and four eyes rubbernecked me.
I thought out loud. “I love the open ceiling. I’ll save some money there and keep that aesthetic. There’s plenty of room. For now, we’ll develop all the rooms we need, use the second floor for storage, maybe put in lockers, and work our way up as we need space. There’s enough room in the back third for office space, a laundry, color-mixing room, and kitchen area.”
Margo set her pad down and did a cartwheel down the center of the long room.
I hooted and clapped. “I’m all in, even if I have to offer my services in night court.” That thought sent shivers through me, but I wasn’t worried. My gavel days were over.
“We just need a few measurements, then we can begin to color coordinate,” pink-glow Margo said.
I giggled. “Not so fast. We need construction permits, and Sebastian has to negotiate the right price.”
“Doesn’t your mother have good connections for decorators and all that?” Margo pointed her pen at me.
“I’ll be color-coordinating on my own. My parents and sister are traveling in Europe with my aunt and without a date of return. They don’t even know I’ve left the bench.” I didn’t want to explain it was my aunt’s dying request.
Hands on hips, Trisha faced me. I felt like we were in the Old West, but I wasn’t sure why. “This is crackers,” Trisha began. “You only need us and that brain of yours, gal.” She drew a deep breath and her question. “Can you bake, or are you serving chocolate-covered coffee beans with espresso?”
Could I bake? Did Vidal Sassoon cut hair?
Chapter Eight
It was three weeks into February, and Donnettelli still hadn’t changed my Order back to read as I’d written it, nor had he responded to Sebastian’s letter, which was to be expected. Time to plot next steps to undermine him, now that he was no longer a threat to me or my staff.
Turning the tables and making him worry enough to do the right thing would be a feat, but with the help of Sebastian, the lawyer and Judge in me would prevail. I intended to bully the bully for the good of all.
The big day finally arrived, and with my hunky lawyer Sebastian by my side, I signed the real-estate papers and became the proud owner of a luxury warehouse and a stack of bills taller than a healthy kindergartener. At closing, I asked so many questions, Sebastian accused me of doing his job.
“You know I’m not one to shove issues out of sight. My style has always been immediate-and-unvarnished.”
Sebastian laughed, placed a hand on each of my shoulders, and kissed me. In sync, we left the closing office. “The Frandor shopping area is blue-ribbon real estate,” Sebastian announced in his delicious Aussie accent. “East Lansing is a smashing spot. Growing and stable.”
“My law students will be able to take the bus or walk.” I slid into the passenger seat of Sebastian’s car and rubbed my hands together to spark heat in my fingers. “I can’t wait for Laurel and Palene to see it.”
“You’ve taken on a lot of work,” Sebastian said. “I know you have lists to make and chores to assign. Let’s go over there.”
“I was going to go for a long walk.” I needed a workout but didn’t have time. “You know I’ve been picking Laurel up from the Courthouse on her lunch hour for girl-time, and if I don’t get some steps and sit-ups in, I’ll gain weight, have to buy new clothes, and need co
unseling.”
“Doll, you can’t get any firmer or sane. This is priority important.” His mouth formed a soft smile. “We can work out later, together.”
I smiled at him, touched by his ability to care for me in ways I never asked for. I texted Laurel and grabbed Sebastian’s hand.
Once inside my new building, we sat on the floor, and I grabbed a notepad from my oversized bag. I drew a rough sketch and included the front lawn, side driveways, and back parking lot.
“I want the salon to be relaxing from the first step inside. Look at the product showroom I sketched in.” I pointed as I spoke. “When patrons walk in, products and seating will be to the left. The receptionist can sit near the center, and there will be a coffee bar to the right. Somewhere in between the reception desk and the coffee bar will be the entrance to the workroom.”
Sebastian pointed at the sketch. “It’s big enough to build out rooms to grow.”
“Love that. Expansion when we’re ready.” I added Sebastian’s vision to the drawing, and he rubbed between my shoulders.
Sebastian peeked at my sketches. “You’ve got at least a dozen stations and what, three hair-rinsing basins?”
For a second, I wondered how he knew so much about hair salons but didn’t inquire and pressed on. “There’s space for extra storage and an extra-large mixing area.” I drew in a large room and a wall for the private back area. “And, I want granite counters everywhere.”
“Add a few plants, and it will have a grand Parisian feel,” Sebastian said. “What are those areas?” He pointed to rectangles I’d drawn.
“Two, maybe three, stackable washer and dryer sets—we can save money washing our own towels. And a mani-pedi area, facial and body massage, and whatever else I can think of for services. Maybe even a henna-body-art room, mud bathroom, lash and hair-extension room and—”
“And, whoa already. I love the way your mind works.” Sebastian kissed me.
All Rise Page 3