(1) Hire Another Lawyer
Samantha Moretti’s beauty was natural and undeniable. Her facial features were elegant and simple: her eyes were dark, her skin a duskier hue than most, and her lips were a brighter pink than her general tone. She used makeup sparingly. Her black hair was swept from her forehead, behind her ears, and it fell slightly above her shoulders. Both sexes were attracted to her for the usual reasons, and she’d grown up with the siren songs of love and lust.
“You read the manuscript?” she asked the lawyer, Thomas Wilcox, Junior.
“Three times.”
“What did you think?”
“I think your godfather was lucky.”
“He said as much, didn’t he?”
“You?”
“Once. I read it once.”
“Was it, uh, difficult or awkward or…?”
“I knew what my parents were,” she said flatly. “Or had been.”
Wilcox nodded, letting her statement stand.
“They seemed honorable people considering their, uh…”
“Methods?”
“Career choices.”
“They probably didn’t score well on their SAT’s.”
Wilcox laughed and agreed that was probably true.
He was a large man with handsome features, a face tanned by weekend golf. She guessed he’d played football at some point in his life. High school, definitely, college, probably. His teeth looked like they had been whitened. His thin hair was a dark brown but bore no evidence of dye or touchup. His swivel chair spoke with a lax squeak as he moved. They were alone in his office; the door to the reception room was closed.
They were discussing her godparent’s estate – of which she was the sole inheritor.
Her godfather, Stephen Laragia, had written a two-hundred page, graphic explanation of six murders: that of a pedophile priest, an incestuous rapist, and four others. He’d revealed a plot of fraud, revenge, and arson that scorched the village of Foursquare, New York. In that manuscript he gave up her parents, private contractors who had once been in the death business. The month before their murders her godmother had died of lymphoma and a month after their deaths her godfather took his own life. Stephen Laragia did not call the manuscript a confession; he called it an explanation.
Wilcox and his father had been mentioned in the explanation. Her godfather considered them honorable and just men, honest lawyers.
“So where do we go from here?” she asked.
“Well, I can offer advice if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That’s a good place to start. Is it free?”
He laughed again. The sound was pleasant.
“It’s on the house.”
“Because you’re turning a profit on the estate.”
“Because it’s what I choose to do.”
He smiled broadly.
“Sorry,” she said. “I have a cynicism regarding lawyers.”
“As do I. That’s why I look out for my clients first. That way I never second guess.”
“What if your clients second guess?”
“I fire them.”
Her eyes squinted a little as she laughed.
“You fire them?”
“I don’t need money so badly I can’t tell a client to go to hell. And I don’t need a TV lawyer devotee to lecture me on law. Or for that matter, what’s right and wrong.”
“Screw-you money.”
“Money has nothing to do with it. I know who I am and what I stand for. I knew what my parents were, too.”
Wilcox wore a white shirt with crisp folds from shoulders to elbows, the sleeves rolled back. He wore suspenders and a belt and the look suited him. His shoes, she’d noted on their introduction, were polished but off the shelf, a typical set of Florsheim’s. His trousers, like his shirt, seemed slightly more expensive. Samantha thought he looked the part he was playing: a wealthy, small town lawyer with a touch of frugality.
“What do you suggest, Mr. Wilcox?”
“My advice is to let The Sisters maintain its course, with your consultation and approval, naturally. I have a complete dossier on the current projects and benefits, and you’ll find it’s exactly as it was since the
Samantha Moretti’s beauty was natural and undeniable. Her facial features were elegant and simple: her eyes were dark, her skin a duskier hue than most, and her lips were a brighter pink than her general tone. She used makeup sparingly. Her black hair was swept from her forehead, behind her ears, and it fell slightly above her shoulders. Both sexes were attracted to her for the usual reasons, and she’d grown up with the siren songs of love and lust.
“You read the manuscript?” she asked the lawyer, Thomas Wilcox, Junior.
“Three times.”
“What did you think?”
“I think your godfather was lucky.”
“He said as much, didn’t he?”
“You?”
“Once. I read it once.”
“Was it, uh, difficult or awkward or…?”
“I knew what my parents were,” she said flatly. “Or had been.”
Wilcox nodded, letting her statement stand.
“They seemed honorable people considering their, uh…”
“Methods?”
“Career choices.”
“They probably didn’t score well on their SAT’s.”
Wilcox laughed and agreed that was probably true.
He was a large man with handsome features, a face tanned by weekend golf. She guessed he’d played football at some point in his life. High school, definitely, college, probably. His teeth looked like they had been whitened. His thin hair was a dark brown but bore no evidence of dye or touchup. His swivel chair spoke with a lax squeak as he moved. They were alone in his office; the door to the reception room was closed.
They were discussing her godparent’s estate – of which she was the sole inheritor.
Her godfather, Stephen Laragia, had written a two-hundred page, graphic explanation of six murders: that of a pedophile priest, an incestuous rapist, and four others. He’d revealed a plot of fraud, revenge, and arson that scorched the village of Foursquare, New York. In that manuscript he gave up her parents, private contractors who had once been in the death business. The month before their murders her godmother had died of lymphoma and a month after their deaths her godfather took his own life. Stephen Laragia did not call the manuscript a confession; he called it an explanation.
Wilcox and his father had been mentioned in the explanation. Her godfather considered them honorable and just men, honest lawyers.
“So where do we go from here?” she asked.
“Well, I can offer advice if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That’s a good place to start. Is it free?”
He laughed again. The sound was pleasant.
“It’s on the house.”
“Because you’re turning a profit on the estate.”
“Because it’s what I choose to do.”
He smiled broadly.
“Sorry,” she said. “I have a cynicism regarding lawyers.”
“As do I. That’s why I look out for my clients first. That way I never second guess.”
“What if your clients second guess?”
“I fire them.”
Her eyes squinted a little as she laughed.
“You fire them?”
“I don’t need money so badly I can’t tell a client to go to hell. And I don’t need a TV lawyer devotee to lecture me on law. Or for that matter, what’s right and wrong.”
“Screw-you money.”
“Money has nothing to do with it. I know who I am and what I stand for. I knew what my parents were, too.”
Wilcox wore a white shirt with crisp folds from shoulders to elbows, the sleeves rolled back. He wore suspenders and a belt and the look suited him. His shoes, she’d noted on their introduction, were polished but off the shelf, a typical set of Florsheim’s. His trousers, like his shirt, seemed slightly more expensive. Samantha thought he looked the part he was playing: a wealthy, small town lawyer with a touch of frugality.
“What do you suggest, Mr. Wilcox?”
“My advice is to let The Sisters maintain its course, with your consultation and approval, naturally. I have a complete dossier on the current projects and benefits, and you’ll find it’s exactly as it was since the
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