Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Epilogue Part I
Epilogue Part II
More from Emma Scott
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Melissa Panio-Petersen
Interior formatting by That Formatting Lady
No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including
photocopying, recording or by any information storage and
retrieval system, without written permission from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses
or places, events or incidents, are fictitious or have been used
in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to William Hairston and Anne
Maclachlan for their suggestions and advice;
Angela and Greg Acquistapace for assistance with
the ins and outs of general contracting; Thomas
Ripley of Ripley & Associates for advice on many
of the legal details contained herein; and a
tremendous thank you to Susannah Carlson for her
invaluable editorial services, though in all areas,
any and all mistakes are mine. Lastly, a very
heartfelt thanks to my advance readers for their
time and honesty.
PLAYIST
S&M, Rihanna
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
Animals, Martin Garrix
hostage, Billie Eilish
House on Fire, LP
Put it to Bed, JHart
Take Me to Church, Hozier
Feeling Good, Nina Simone
Movement, Hozier
Falling in Love, Dennis Kruissen
DEDICATION
For Jeanine, the best of best friends.
And for Robin, Cory’s first and best champion, and
mine. With love.
“Los Angeles…it’s a place of secrets: secret
houses, secret lives, secret pleasures. And no one is
looking to the outside for verification that what
they're doing is all right.”
-LA Story
H
1
Alex
e kisses me hard, insistently, a
promise of more to come. A promise
of everything. When he pulls away, I
see desire burning hot and bright, warming his icy
blue eyes. My heart soars. It’s been so long…
I pull him close, press myself against him,
letting him know I’m his to do with as he pleases.
He kisses me again, possessively, demanding. His
hands are everywhere, his body over mine, poised.
I can feel the need radiate off him, mirroring my
own. This time there would be no stopping, no
hesitation.
This time there will be fire…
A phone rings, loud and clamoring.
“No…” I whisper.
He pulls away, taking all the heat with him,
leaving me cold and trembling, aching with want.
“Sorry, I have to get this…”
I jolted upright, as if someone had tossed a
bucket of ice water down my back. My hand
snaked out to silence the alarm clock that had
invaded my dreams, and I sank back into the
pillows, my heart pounding, my breath coming fast.
The dream was gone but the aching need between
my legs was wide-awake. Though I knew it was
futile, I turned and reached for him.
Drew’s side of the bed was empty. Cold. As if
he hadn’t slept there at all, though I knew he had.
He’d come in from the downstairs office around
two a.m., slipping into the bed as quietly as he
could so as not to wake me.
But I hadn’t slept.
My closing argument of my latest trial had been
banging around in my head as I sought to put the
words in their perfect order, crafting it into a sword
that would ram into the heart of the defense,
slaying their case dead.
As I heard the whisper of sheets, I had thought
—briefly—of reaching for Drew, to slip into his
arms and become lost in him. To let pleasure glide
us into a restful sleep for the few hours that
remained until we both had to be up again. But
he’d turned his back to me and was asleep almost
immediately. I’d had the dream—as unsatisfying as
reality—instead.
Now, I listened for the shower, but the bedroom
suite was silent. A faint mist hung in the air, heavy
with the scents of Drew’s soap and cologne. I
glanced at the clock. Two minutes after six.
He’s up earlier than usual.
I remembered he had an important meeting that
morning, and he didn’t want to risk getting stuck in
Los Angeles traffic.
And I had closing arguments for the most
important case of my career. Why was I wasting
my thoughts—and time—on a silly dream?
I threw the covers off and swung my legs over
the side of the king-size bed, pausing a moment to
mentally organize my day. Schedules, research,
depositions, lunch with the Posse. But first and
foremost, those closing arguments.
I took a deep, meditative inhale—the kind I had
been taught in countless yoga classes—and let it
out slowly. Munro vs. Hutchinson. I was a mere
three hours away from giving the speech that would
lock it down with a win and all but guarantee I
would make partner at the law firm of Lawson &
Dooney.
The last vestiges of the dream slipped away,
forgotten.
I SHOWERED QUICKLY and stepped out into a misty
bathroom en-suite that now smelled of my
perfumed body wash and the French lotion Drew
had bought me on a business trip to Paris the year
before. As the bathroom defogged, I went to my
walk-in closet, opposite Drew’s and found the
taupe-colored Armani suit I had chosen the night
before: a pencil skirt and neat jacket over a mauve
blouse. On the carpet beside me, were the tweed
and leather Ferragamo t-strap pumps I’d selected to
go with them.
I dressed quickly, applied makeup, and pinned
my fiery red hair into a twist. Multi-colored
gemstone earrings—also chosen the night before—
added a touch of color to my elegantly simple suit
and brought out the blue of my eyes. A dab of
Chanel No. 5 behind each ear, and I was ready.
Downstairs, the kitchen—a gleaming expanse
of white quartz and stainless steel—held the aromas
of coffee, eggs, and Drew’s cologne. A note, hastily
scribbled and left near the coffeemaker made me
smile.
Off to the races. Knock’em dead today!
Your fiancé
My fiancé. I examined the three-carat emerald-
cut diamond ring on my left hand. The weight of it
was taking time to get used to since Drew had
slipped it over my finger two weeks ago. And so
far, it had proven to be a distraction at work. One
judge had already commented on it during a
preliminary hearing, having spotted the glittering
stone all the way from the bench.
I made a mental note to never, ever wear it in
front of a jury—certainly not today. God knew,
cases had been won or lost for less, and I’d be
damned if I lost Munro vs. Hutchinson over a ring.
Movement out of the windows caught my eye
and I spotted Drew in the driveway, dressed in a
dark blue suit, bending his six-foot two-inch frame
into his silver Porsche 911 Carrera. I couldn’t see
the Bluetooth device in his ear, but I could see he
was already talking to someone on the phone, his
handsome features drawn tight into Business Mode.
I smiled fondly but briefly, falling into my own
Business Mode. I sipped my coffee, ate three bites
of grapefruit, then took up my briefcase and Fendi
bag, both resting at the front entry where I’d left
them the night before. I glanced at my watch. Six
thirty-three. Damn. Three minutes behind schedule.
AT THE SUPERIOR COURT DOWNTOWN, I walked
down the hallways, my heels clopping on the floor
and echoing through the corridors. At Department
12, where Munro vs. Hutchinson had been held for
the last two weeks, I paused at the door and took a
sharp inhale and let it out slowly. A sense of
excitement or anticipation—not anxiety—filled me,
and a slow smile spread over my lips.
I got this.
I threw open the door and went in.
The chairs were already full, and as I walked
down the aisle, I heard several whispers, of “Shark
Lady” and “prodigy.” There were even some
members of the press there. I kept my eyes straight
ahead, but out of my peripheral vision I could see
at least three journalists. Their cameras clicked as I
passed.
Don Knight, lead council for the defense was
already there, sitting next to his clients: two middle-
aged men—the Hutchinson brothers—who shifted
in their seats and spoke in hushed voices to one
another. They both froze when they saw me, twin
expressions of abject fear on their faces.
Don was a bespectacled, dark haired man with
a kind face and keen sense of humor. Had we not
found ourselves on opposite sides of the aisle so
often, I wouldn’t have minded a friendship, but
after beating him three cases to none, I was pretty
sure he hated me. He sidled up to me as I opened
my briefcase at my desk and we shook hands.
“You look chipper, Ms. Gardener,” he muttered
through a smile for the journalists. “Chipper like a
shark smelling blood.”
I smiled back. Cameras clicked.
“I do smell blood, as a matter of fact. So kind of
you to be chumming the waters for me with your
case.”
He bristled. “Against any other attorney, this
would be my slam-dunk.”
“Are you blaming me for doing my job better
than you?” I retorted. “If your case was so solid,
you should have proven that. Or you could have
settled.”
“We could have,” he agreed, “except that
would be admitting wrong-doing, of which there
was none.”
I quirked an eyebrow. “None?”
He shifted irritably. “You and I both know that
your client was just as culpable—”
“That’s for the jury to say, not me.”
I couldn’t help noticing his desk was covered in
papers, depositions in binders, exhibits tabbed and
numbered, and notepads blackened with ink.
I pulled one single yellow legal pad and a pen
out of my briefcase and nothing else.
“Is there something else I can do for you, Mr.
Knight?”
“No, I just came over to say congratulations,”
he said bitterly. “You’re going to win today. Make
your rich client even richer and destroy a small
business in the process. Another kill for the Shark
Lady. I just hope you’re prepared for that.”
“I’m more than prepared.” I nodded my chin to
the press. “Smile, Don. No one likes a sore loser.”
Don’s eyes widened and he shook his head, as
if disappointed in me. He returned to his messy
table and two nervous clients, as Reginald Munro
sauntered up to me.
I shook off Knight’s words that bothered more
than I could admit and forced a smile for my client.
Reginald craned up to kiss my cheek, but I
deflected with a handshake. At five-seven—five-
nine in my heels—I towered over the hairy little
man who never failed to remind me of an opossum
in an expensive Italian suit.
“Is my angel ready?”
“Always,” I said, feeling the defense council
table watching me.
“Excellent.”
Reginald clapped his hairy-knuckled hands and
rubbed them together in blatant anticipation. A
sapphire pinky ring glinted in the light streaming in
from the windows. I almost told him to take it off
before the jury filed in but changed my mind. Don
Knight’s words gave me an idea, a spark of
inspiration, and I quickly jotted down some notes
on my legal pad before it could slip away. There
had always been one tiny flaw in my case that
could possibly trip me up and now, thanks to my
opponent, I’d snipped it off. There was no chance I
would lose this case now.
None.
I PACED CASUALLY before the jury box, making just
the right amount of eye-contact—not too much to
be invasive, not too little to appear nervous—and
gestured confidently with my ring-less hands.
“In closing, Mr. Knight has tried to throw up a
smoke screen to confuse you, a smokescreen made
of numbers. Specifically, the number of dollars in
my client’s bank account. The defense has worked
almost as hard to show you how wealthy Mr.
Munro is as they have trying to mitigate their
clients’ negligence. ‘Why reward a rich man with
more riches?’ you might wonder, and that’s what
they want you to be thinking.
“But I am here to remind you that your job is
not to consider Reginald Munro as a series of
numbers. He is a human being, wronged by the
defendants, and seeking appropriate recompense in
the eyes of the law. If he were a garbage collector
would you feel more sympathy? How about if he
were unemployed? Is the pain and suffering
sustained by him at Hutchinson Hardware
somehow less consequential simply because he
drives a Rolls Royce? The answer is no.
“You are the eyes of the law, and justice is blind
to all things: race, creed, religion…and how deep a
victim’s pockets might be. Pain is pain. Suffering is
suffering. And we can’t let a business off the hook
for causing both, no matter our opinions of the
victim. We have to set an example because the next
time they’re negligent in providing for the safety of
their customers, it just might be that garbage man or
the single mom working two jobs who takes the fall.
Thank you.”
Mr. Knight offered a rebuttal argument, but I
hardly heard it. Judging by the looks on the jurors’
faces, they weren’t buying it either. Judge
Fitzpatrick gave them their instructions for
deliberations, and the court was adjourned until
they reached a verdict.
I couldn’t avoid Reginald Munro’s triumphant
hug and was just thankful the jury had already filed
out and didn’t see it. He hoisted me up; apparently
his back had made a miraculous recovery since last
Friday when my expert witness testified Munro
might suffer pain for the rest of his life.
“You’re an angel of justice!” Munro crowed.
“I wouldn’t say that,” I said, wriggling out of
his grasp. The press was still here, snapping pictures
and holding up their phones to record the scene.
“I have to tell you,” Reginald said, “when Jon
Lawson assigned you for my case, I had my doubts.
I’d heard you were a prodigy, but hearing and
seeing are two different things. And I’ve seen it all.
You’re the real deal, sweetheart.”
Condescending ‘sweetheart’ aside, the
compliment thrilled me.
“Thank you, Mr. Munro. That’s kind of you to
say.”
“Come on. Let me take you to lunch and we
can discuss how Lawson & Dooney might be a
good fit to handle the legal affairs of the entire
Munro family.”
He said ‘family’ but he may as well have said
‘empire.’ The Munro family was akin to the
Waltons of Wal-Mart fame but with a thriving hotel
and luxury resort chain instead of superstores. For
L&D to handle all of their legal needs was akin to
winning a Powerball lottery.
I saw Don Knight watching us and kept my face
neutral. “I’d love to, Mr. Munro, but I have a prior
lunch appointment I can’t skip. And besides, it’s
not over yet. The jury needs to come back for us
—”
He snorted a loud laugh. “So modest. All right,
I’ll dine alone today, but when they come back with
a verdict, I expect dinner with you, Jon, and even
that stiff-necked Dooney, and I won’t take no for
an answer.”
“I’ll call you when I get word of a verdict,” I
told him and eased a sigh of relief as he and his
mountain of a bodyguard/driver left the courtroom.
Don Knight fell in step next to me as I left the
courtroom. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I? ‘Make your rich
client richer.’ I planted that seed and watched you
turn it into a bumper crop.”
I smiled thinly. “You’re mixing metaphors. I’m
a farmer now? I thought I was the shark smelling
blood.”
“Acting as if my clients’ guilt was a foregone
conclusion was an especially nice touch.”
“I thought so.”
We reached the courtroom door and Knight’s
expression softened. “I admire you, Ms. Gardener,
I really do. But I feel sorry for you more. Someday,
I’m afraid you’ll see why.”
I
2
Alex
tapped my fingers impatiently on the
steering wheel, silently commanding
the red light to change. My engagement
ring captured the afternoon sunlight and sprayed it
over the dash. I smiled, feeling some of the tension
leave my face, but only for a moment. Don
Knight’s words resounded in my head like bats in a
cave, and I couldn’t sweep them out.
He had ruined my triumph. I’d just nailed the
most important case of my career—so far—and
was fulfilling the legacy of my father, one of the
greatest trial lawyers in Los Angeles before he
retired five years ago. Now I suddenly felt like the
Princess and the Pea, lying high on a stack of the
richest mattresses and still feeling a tiny little prick
of discomfort.
At twelve-thirty—fifteen minutes behind
schedule—I guided my Mini onto Santa Monica
Boulevard and screeched into the Belvedere’s
parking lot. I briefly checked my reflection in the
rearview; a stray strand of red hair had come loose.
Knight was just bitter that he’d lost, I reasoned.
If I hadn’t had a strong case in the eyes of the law,
we wouldn’t have gone to trial at all. Was I
supposed to hold back? Would Usain Bolt run a
race more slowly simply because his fellow racers
weren’t as naturally fast? This case was going to
make an already wealthy man even richer, catapult
L&D into the stratosphere of law firms, and make
me a partner. But like I had told the jury, that was
all window-dressing. Guilty is guilty, and if
Hutchinson had had sturdier shelving for their
heavy supplies, they wouldn’t have toppled onto
Munro in the first place.
The fact that he had been climbing those
shelves—and partially drunk at ten in the morning
—was beside the point.
I tucked the stray lock of hair back into my
severe twist. I had done nothing outside the bounds
of the law. My father would be proud. With that
thought bolstering me, I stepped smartly out of the
convertible and handed the keys to the valet.
cycek77
Arkusze
E-book english 
UNBREAKABLE CITY LIGHTS II: LOS ANGELES
EMMA SCOTT
CONTENTS Acknowledgments Playist Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23
Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Epilogue Part I Epilogue Part II More from Emma Scott
All rights reserved. Cover art by Melissa Panio-Petersen Interior formatting by That Formatting Lady No part of this eBook may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author. This is a work of fiction. Any names or characters, businesses or places, events or incidents, are fictitious or have been used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Many thanks to William Hairston and Anne Maclachlan for their suggestions and advice; Angela and Greg Acquistapace for assistance with the ins and outs of general contracting; Thomas Ripley of Ripley & Associates for advice on many of the legal details contained herein; and a tremendous thank you to Susannah Carlson for her invaluable editorial services, though in all areas, any and all mistakes are mine. Lastly, a very heartfelt thanks to my advance readers for their time and honesty.
PLAYIST S&M, Rihanna Eine Kleine Nachtmusik Animals, Martin Garrix hostage, Billie Eilish House on Fire, LP Put it to Bed, JHart Take Me to Church, Hozier Feeling Good, Nina Simone Movement, Hozier Falling in Love, Dennis Kruissen
DEDICATION For Jeanine, the best of best friends. And for Robin, Cory’s first and best champion, and mine. With love.
“Los Angeles…it’s a place of secrets: secret houses, secret lives, secret pleasures. And no one is looking to the outside for verification that what they're doing is all right.” -LA Story
H 1 Alex e kisses me hard, insistently, a promise of more to come. A promise of everything. When he pulls away, I see desire burning hot and bright, warming his icy blue eyes. My heart soars. It’s been so long… I pull him close, press myself against him, letting him know I’m his to do with as he pleases. He kisses me again, possessively, demanding. His hands are everywhere, his body over mine, poised. I can feel the need radiate off him, mirroring my own. This time there would be no stopping, no hesitation. This time there will be fire…
A phone rings, loud and clamoring. “No…” I whisper. He pulls away, taking all the heat with him, leaving me cold and trembling, aching with want. “Sorry, I have to get this…” I jolted upright, as if someone had tossed a bucket of ice water down my back. My hand snaked out to silence the alarm clock that had invaded my dreams, and I sank back into the pillows, my heart pounding, my breath coming fast. The dream was gone but the aching need between my legs was wide-awake. Though I knew it was futile, I turned and reached for him. Drew’s side of the bed was empty. Cold. As if he hadn’t slept there at all, though I knew he had. He’d come in from the downstairs office around two a.m., slipping into the bed as quietly as he could so as not to wake me. But I hadn’t slept. My closing argument of my latest trial had been banging around in my head as I sought to put the words in their perfect order, crafting it into a sword that would ram into the heart of the defense, slaying their case dead. As I heard the whisper of sheets, I had thought —briefly—of reaching for Drew, to slip into his arms and become lost in him. To let pleasure glide us into a restful sleep for the few hours that remained until we both had to be up again. But
he’d turned his back to me and was asleep almost immediately. I’d had the dream—as unsatisfying as reality—instead. Now, I listened for the shower, but the bedroom suite was silent. A faint mist hung in the air, heavy with the scents of Drew’s soap and cologne. I glanced at the clock. Two minutes after six. He’s up earlier than usual. I remembered he had an important meeting that morning, and he didn’t want to risk getting stuck in Los Angeles traffic. And I had closing arguments for the most important case of my career. Why was I wasting my thoughts—and time—on a silly dream? I threw the covers off and swung my legs over the side of the king-size bed, pausing a moment to mentally organize my day. Schedules, research, depositions, lunch with the Posse. But first and foremost, those closing arguments. I took a deep, meditative inhale—the kind I had been taught in countless yoga classes—and let it out slowly. Munro vs. Hutchinson. I was a mere three hours away from giving the speech that would lock it down with a win and all but guarantee I would make partner at the law firm of Lawson & Dooney. The last vestiges of the dream slipped away, forgotten.
I SHOWERED QUICKLY and stepped out into a misty bathroom en-suite that now smelled of my perfumed body wash and the French lotion Drew had bought me on a business trip to Paris the year before. As the bathroom defogged, I went to my walk-in closet, opposite Drew’s and found the taupe-colored Armani suit I had chosen the night before: a pencil skirt and neat jacket over a mauve blouse. On the carpet beside me, were the tweed and leather Ferragamo t-strap pumps I’d selected to go with them. I dressed quickly, applied makeup, and pinned my fiery red hair into a twist. Multi-colored gemstone earrings—also chosen the night before— added a touch of color to my elegantly simple suit and brought out the blue of my eyes. A dab of Chanel No. 5 behind each ear, and I was ready. Downstairs, the kitchen—a gleaming expanse of white quartz and stainless steel—held the aromas of coffee, eggs, and Drew’s cologne. A note, hastily scribbled and left near the coffeemaker made me smile. Off to the races. Knock’em dead today! Your fiancé My fiancé. I examined the three-carat emerald- cut diamond ring on my left hand. The weight of it was taking time to get used to since Drew had
slipped it over my finger two weeks ago. And so far, it had proven to be a distraction at work. One judge had already commented on it during a preliminary hearing, having spotted the glittering stone all the way from the bench. I made a mental note to never, ever wear it in front of a jury—certainly not today. God knew, cases had been won or lost for less, and I’d be damned if I lost Munro vs. Hutchinson over a ring. Movement out of the windows caught my eye and I spotted Drew in the driveway, dressed in a dark blue suit, bending his six-foot two-inch frame into his silver Porsche 911 Carrera. I couldn’t see the Bluetooth device in his ear, but I could see he was already talking to someone on the phone, his handsome features drawn tight into Business Mode. I smiled fondly but briefly, falling into my own Business Mode. I sipped my coffee, ate three bites of grapefruit, then took up my briefcase and Fendi bag, both resting at the front entry where I’d left them the night before. I glanced at my watch. Six thirty-three. Damn. Three minutes behind schedule. AT THE SUPERIOR COURT DOWNTOWN, I walked down the hallways, my heels clopping on the floor and echoing through the corridors. At Department
12, where Munro vs. Hutchinson had been held for the last two weeks, I paused at the door and took a sharp inhale and let it out slowly. A sense of excitement or anticipation—not anxiety—filled me, and a slow smile spread over my lips. I got this. I threw open the door and went in. The chairs were already full, and as I walked down the aisle, I heard several whispers, of “Shark Lady” and “prodigy.” There were even some members of the press there. I kept my eyes straight ahead, but out of my peripheral vision I could see at least three journalists. Their cameras clicked as I passed. Don Knight, lead council for the defense was already there, sitting next to his clients: two middle- aged men—the Hutchinson brothers—who shifted in their seats and spoke in hushed voices to one another. They both froze when they saw me, twin expressions of abject fear on their faces. Don was a bespectacled, dark haired man with a kind face and keen sense of humor. Had we not found ourselves on opposite sides of the aisle so often, I wouldn’t have minded a friendship, but after beating him three cases to none, I was pretty sure he hated me. He sidled up to me as I opened my briefcase at my desk and we shook hands. “You look chipper, Ms. Gardener,” he muttered through a smile for the journalists. “Chipper like a
shark smelling blood.” I smiled back. Cameras clicked. “I do smell blood, as a matter of fact. So kind of you to be chumming the waters for me with your case.” He bristled. “Against any other attorney, this would be my slam-dunk.” “Are you blaming me for doing my job better than you?” I retorted. “If your case was so solid, you should have proven that. Or you could have settled.” “We could have,” he agreed, “except that would be admitting wrong-doing, of which there was none.” I quirked an eyebrow. “None?” He shifted irritably. “You and I both know that your client was just as culpable—” “That’s for the jury to say, not me.” I couldn’t help noticing his desk was covered in papers, depositions in binders, exhibits tabbed and numbered, and notepads blackened with ink. I pulled one single yellow legal pad and a pen out of my briefcase and nothing else. “Is there something else I can do for you, Mr. Knight?” “No, I just came over to say congratulations,” he said bitterly. “You’re going to win today. Make your rich client even richer and destroy a small business in the process. Another kill for the Shark
Lady. I just hope you’re prepared for that.” “I’m more than prepared.” I nodded my chin to the press. “Smile, Don. No one likes a sore loser.” Don’s eyes widened and he shook his head, as if disappointed in me. He returned to his messy table and two nervous clients, as Reginald Munro sauntered up to me. I shook off Knight’s words that bothered more than I could admit and forced a smile for my client. Reginald craned up to kiss my cheek, but I deflected with a handshake. At five-seven—five- nine in my heels—I towered over the hairy little man who never failed to remind me of an opossum in an expensive Italian suit. “Is my angel ready?” “Always,” I said, feeling the defense council table watching me. “Excellent.” Reginald clapped his hairy-knuckled hands and rubbed them together in blatant anticipation. A sapphire pinky ring glinted in the light streaming in from the windows. I almost told him to take it off before the jury filed in but changed my mind. Don Knight’s words gave me an idea, a spark of inspiration, and I quickly jotted down some notes on my legal pad before it could slip away. There had always been one tiny flaw in my case that could possibly trip me up and now, thanks to my opponent, I’d snipped it off. There was no chance I
would lose this case now. None. I PACED CASUALLY before the jury box, making just the right amount of eye-contact—not too much to be invasive, not too little to appear nervous—and gestured confidently with my ring-less hands. “In closing, Mr. Knight has tried to throw up a smoke screen to confuse you, a smokescreen made of numbers. Specifically, the number of dollars in my client’s bank account. The defense has worked almost as hard to show you how wealthy Mr. Munro is as they have trying to mitigate their clients’ negligence. ‘Why reward a rich man with more riches?’ you might wonder, and that’s what they want you to be thinking. “But I am here to remind you that your job is not to consider Reginald Munro as a series of numbers. He is a human being, wronged by the defendants, and seeking appropriate recompense in the eyes of the law. If he were a garbage collector would you feel more sympathy? How about if he were unemployed? Is the pain and suffering sustained by him at Hutchinson Hardware somehow less consequential simply because he drives a Rolls Royce? The answer is no.
“You are the eyes of the law, and justice is blind to all things: race, creed, religion…and how deep a victim’s pockets might be. Pain is pain. Suffering is suffering. And we can’t let a business off the hook for causing both, no matter our opinions of the victim. We have to set an example because the next time they’re negligent in providing for the safety of their customers, it just might be that garbage man or the single mom working two jobs who takes the fall. Thank you.” Mr. Knight offered a rebuttal argument, but I hardly heard it. Judging by the looks on the jurors’ faces, they weren’t buying it either. Judge Fitzpatrick gave them their instructions for deliberations, and the court was adjourned until they reached a verdict. I couldn’t avoid Reginald Munro’s triumphant hug and was just thankful the jury had already filed out and didn’t see it. He hoisted me up; apparently his back had made a miraculous recovery since last Friday when my expert witness testified Munro might suffer pain for the rest of his life. “You’re an angel of justice!” Munro crowed. “I wouldn’t say that,” I said, wriggling out of his grasp. The press was still here, snapping pictures and holding up their phones to record the scene. “I have to tell you,” Reginald said, “when Jon Lawson assigned you for my case, I had my doubts. I’d heard you were a prodigy, but hearing and
seeing are two different things. And I’ve seen it all. You’re the real deal, sweetheart.” Condescending ‘sweetheart’ aside, the compliment thrilled me. “Thank you, Mr. Munro. That’s kind of you to say.” “Come on. Let me take you to lunch and we can discuss how Lawson & Dooney might be a good fit to handle the legal affairs of the entire Munro family.” He said ‘family’ but he may as well have said ‘empire.’ The Munro family was akin to the Waltons of Wal-Mart fame but with a thriving hotel and luxury resort chain instead of superstores. For L&D to handle all of their legal needs was akin to winning a Powerball lottery. I saw Don Knight watching us and kept my face neutral. “I’d love to, Mr. Munro, but I have a prior lunch appointment I can’t skip. And besides, it’s not over yet. The jury needs to come back for us —” He snorted a loud laugh. “So modest. All right, I’ll dine alone today, but when they come back with a verdict, I expect dinner with you, Jon, and even that stiff-necked Dooney, and I won’t take no for an answer.” “I’ll call you when I get word of a verdict,” I told him and eased a sigh of relief as he and his mountain of a bodyguard/driver left the courtroom.
Don Knight fell in step next to me as I left the courtroom. “I’m an idiot, aren’t I? ‘Make your rich client richer.’ I planted that seed and watched you turn it into a bumper crop.” I smiled thinly. “You’re mixing metaphors. I’m a farmer now? I thought I was the shark smelling blood.” “Acting as if my clients’ guilt was a foregone conclusion was an especially nice touch.” “I thought so.” We reached the courtroom door and Knight’s expression softened. “I admire you, Ms. Gardener, I really do. But I feel sorry for you more. Someday, I’m afraid you’ll see why.”
I 2 Alex tapped my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, silently commanding the red light to change. My engagement ring captured the afternoon sunlight and sprayed it over the dash. I smiled, feeling some of the tension leave my face, but only for a moment. Don Knight’s words resounded in my head like bats in a cave, and I couldn’t sweep them out. He had ruined my triumph. I’d just nailed the most important case of my career—so far—and was fulfilling the legacy of my father, one of the greatest trial lawyers in Los Angeles before he retired five years ago. Now I suddenly felt like the
Princess and the Pea, lying high on a stack of the richest mattresses and still feeling a tiny little prick of discomfort. At twelve-thirty—fifteen minutes behind schedule—I guided my Mini onto Santa Monica Boulevard and screeched into the Belvedere’s parking lot. I briefly checked my reflection in the rearview; a stray strand of red hair had come loose. Knight was just bitter that he’d lost, I reasoned. If I hadn’t had a strong case in the eyes of the law, we wouldn’t have gone to trial at all. Was I supposed to hold back? Would Usain Bolt run a race more slowly simply because his fellow racers weren’t as naturally fast? This case was going to make an already wealthy man even richer, catapult L&D into the stratosphere of law firms, and make me a partner. But like I had told the jury, that was all window-dressing. Guilty is guilty, and if Hutchinson had had sturdier shelving for their heavy supplies, they wouldn’t have toppled onto Munro in the first place. The fact that he had been climbing those shelves—and partially drunk at ten in the morning —was beside the point. I tucked the stray lock of hair back into my severe twist. I had done nothing outside the bounds of the law. My father would be proud. With that thought bolstering me, I stepped smartly out of the convertible and handed the keys to the valet.