May 16, 1997, the day Shannon dumped me after five years of dating and a year of engagement. I'll never forget it. Late afternoon at her cousin's college graduation party. I had to work late and the party was in full swing by the time I arrived. When I arrived, I grabbed a beer, chatted with friends, and wandered looking for Shannon. I found her sitting on Joe's lap, whispering in his ear. I just stood there, looking stupid and amazed. Joe nudged her and she looked up at me. We're done, she said, and went back to whispering in Joe's ear, his hand squeezing her ass.
* * *
Two years later I finished law school. Didn't take long to figure out that graduating toward the top of your class doesn't help find a job in a down economy. I scraped together my meager savings, borrowed from friends, and opened my own office in my hometown.
The first year was tough, but I was a lifelong resident and clients trickled in. Some of the rich ones who knew my folks would throw simple work my way, and the poor ones came around because they couldn't afford anyone better. Then came the Harris murders.
Johnny Harris was a loser, 40 years old and living at home. He grew some weed in a far corner of the soybean fields, smoked the dope, listened to the Doobie Brothers, and lived wanted for little. When his parents were murdered and Johnny found the bodies, the shit hit the fan. After seventeen hours of interrogation, he broke down and admitted he might have done it in a pot-induced haze. He wouldn't sign the confession, but the cops didn't care. They charged him with capital murder.
Johnny's sister Tammy had used me for her divorce, and she told Johnny to get me for the case. I had helped out on a few murder trials in my law school clinic, but I'd never had one myself. Johnny didn't care, though. He was flat broke and I met his most important criteria: I was cheap. Real cheap.
I worked day and night on the Harris murder case. I flooded the prosecution with motions, discovery requests, and anything else I could think up to get this poor bastard acquitted. Eventually, I was successful in getting Johnny's confession suppressed. Seems the coppers hadn't bothered to read him his Miranda rights, and they had no probable cause to take him in and hold him for seventeen hours of interrogation. With no confession, no eyewitnesses, and no physical evidence tying Johnny to the crime, the State dropped the charges and Johnny walked free. Within weeks, I was the busiest goddamned attorney in the county.
I took all manner of cases. I represented banks foreclosing on homes; homeowners being foreclosed upon; criminal defense; real estate closings; personal injury; and divorces. If you could pay my bill, I'd take your case. Day after day, from early morning to late into the evening, seven days a week, behind my desk researching and drafting documents or arguing in a courtroom on behalf of my clients. My office got bigger, my part-time secretary became two full-time secretaries, and my crappy, drafty studio apartment became a large, airy ranch in the country. I had it all.
All, that is, except a love life. Sure, there was the occasional date, and the even less occasional frantic release of passionate sex with some near stranger. None of them hung around, though. Who has time for a boyfriend–or husband, for that matter–who works all the time and is late for dates when he bothers to show up at all?
That's the way it is, though. You make your bed and you sleep in the damned thing. And if your choice is to avoid the Shannon Ryans of this world, that bed becomes an empty field you throw yourself into at the end of another 16-hour workday.
* * *
By late 2006, business was to the point where an associate was needed or clients would have to go elsewhere. Not wanting to lose any valuable accounts, my eyes were out for a hard-working, talented young attorney with fire in the belly. That turned out to be Rebecca Galarza, a 30-year oldish assistant state's attorney with a flair for understatement. She was tall with long, dark hair, deep brown eyes, and flawless olive skin. Her high cheekbones ran down her face to a delicate chin and full lips. Her long legs ran straight up to a perfect, pouty ass, and her breasts were a perfect handful sitting high on her chest and pointing slightly upward. She was the only woman I knew that could make a pantsuit sexy. Not that I noticed.
I made Rebecca an offer. Fifty grand a year plus thirty points on anything above one-fifty she brought in. All told, she could expect to make ninety or more a year with an average work week, and far more if she put in longer hours. Not great in the big city, but huge money in backwater Illinois. And in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.
Rebecca's only experience was with criminal prosecution. As such, there was a learning curve she needed to meet to deal with my clientele. She sat in on meetings, real estate closings, discovery depositions, and all other manner of this strange and arcane world known as general civil law. She held the hands of wives and husbands going through divorces and custody battles, drafted contracts for commercial building contracts, and presented zoning petitions before the local powers that be. Within six months, she was working eighty hours a week and we were taking in even more money and clients than before. She required little guidance, and I was left figuring out how to meet the expanded case demands.
All of this new business left even less time for a love life. Rebecca, though beautiful, was an employee, and it didn't seem prudent to risk the investment. Occasionally I'd turn and catch her looking at me in a way that indicated the chance was there, but messy dating followed by messy break-up would leave poor Erik with another associate to find and train. Still, if something didn't happen soon . . . .
* * *
My intercom buzzed. "Mr. Taylor, your four o'clock appointment is here to see you." I pressed the button. "Please show her into the conference room."
I looked at my schedule. 4:00 Hollis, S–possible divorce/custody.
I grabbed a legal pad and pen and strode to the conference room. She was sitting in a chair with her back to me, her short brown hair bobbed above the collar, her shoulders slumped slightly, her long fingers twirling a pen on the tabletop. "Thank you for waiting, Ms. Hollis," I said, closing the door and walking around to the other side of the table.
She looked up at me. "Hello, Erik," Shannon said.
I stood there a moment before inching out my chair and slid in. She hadn't changed much. Short-cut blonde hair, square jaws with high cheekbones, and green eyes that could look through you. Her hair accentuated her long neck and willowy figure, which she had managed to keep firm over the years. She was still a real looker, no two ways about it.
I didn't say anything, just drank her in and remembered our times, both good and bad.
"It's good to see you again, too," she said, trying to smile. "It's been a long time."
I put the pen and pad of paper on the table, leaned back, and crossed my legs. "About ten years," I said.
"Too long." She looked back down at the table.
I said nothing.
"Ron's leaving me." She looked at a picture on the wall to her right. "Says he's taking the kids, too. Taking everything. Says he's going to leave me in the streets, where I belong."
I nodded. "Who's Ron?"
"My husband."
"I figured that much. Why's he so all powerful is my point."
"Ron Hollis," she said, looking back at me before searching out another picture on the walls. "I know you've heard of him." I shook my head. "His family owns Hollis Construction."
I nodded. "Okay."
"They're loaded. He says he's going to get a battery of lawyers and take it all. Keep me from ever seeing my children again." She looked back at me, her eyes not leaving mine. "Erik, you've got to help me."
"No, Shannon, I don't."
