stay in the run-down shack they lived in, and have a little money on the side to party.
Five years later, the party money was gone, and the house was feeling cramped, but the pickup was still going strong. Like a rock. Ralph never regretted the way he spent his windfall.
Now Ralph called from the bedside of his brother Frank at Norfolk General Hospital. Misfortune had again visited the Johnson family, and Ralph was hoping Brad could find another pile of cash to ease the pain. Frank had had the bad luck of navigating an intersection at the same time a sleeping drunk driver in an 18-wheeler blew through a red light and demolished Frank’s vehicle. Ralph was sure this was a case for Brad Carson.
Upon learning the facts, Bella transformed herself into a sugary-sweet grief counselor. But she had a hard time disguising the glee in her voice as she offered Ralph and his brother her deepest condolences. She assured them that Brad would be on the way immediately. Justice would be done. The jerk who caused this terrible tragedy would pay. Dearly.
She talked of justice, but she thought about cash. The case was a gold mine. By the time she hung up the phone, she was practically drooling.
* * *
Brad took the call from Bella on his cell phone and was at the hospital in a flash. He waited briefly for the elevator, lost patience, then bounded up the stairs to the third floor, where Frank Johnson was being treated. He took the stairs two at a time, his feet barely touching the floor, the adrenaline pumping. He always felt this way when he landed a promising new case.
This feeling, this sense of excitement at someone else’s misfortune, always prompted a bout of guilt followed by the same Brad Carson pep talk. The practice of law was so competitive, he reminded himself, there was nothing wrong with feeling good about landing a new case. After all, the damage had already been done, and someone needed to help the man get the money he deserved to get on with his life. Brad was convinced that nobody could do that better than he could. Apparently Frank’s brother agreed. Brad worked hard and got an honest referral. No need to feel bad about that.
Brad put on his best look of professional compassion and stepped inside the door to Frank Johnson’s room. He surveyed the small crowd of people and immediately sensed that something was wrong. Frank was lying uncomfortably in traction, hooked up by tubes to a computer contraption that monitored his vitals and fed him intravenous fluids. Frank’s wife sat by his bedside, holding his hand. Ralph stood next to her with downcast eyes. All of this was typical of the hospital room of an injured client. But the woman with her back to the door was the source of Brad’s discomfort. She was clearly not medical personnel, and Brad sensed trouble.
Ralph sheepishly introduced the stranger as Nikki Moreno, a paralegal for Billy “the Rock” Davenport.
Brad extended his hand to Nikki. In her other hand, and clearly visible to Brad, was a typed contract for legal services. At the bottom of a full page of small print was a signature that Brad assumed belonged to Frank Johnson.
Brad gave her hand a menacing squeeze. Nikki lifted an eyebrow.
She did not look the part of a professional. She was thin—too thin for Brad’s taste—and all legs, which she showed off with a tight miniskirt and three-inch heels. Nikki apparently believed that the gods of style required her to lavishly decorate and puncture her smooth olive skin with a small tattoo on her ankle, a more prominent one on her left shoulder, a pierced navel clearly visible under her cropped blouse, and numerous holes in her ears. Despite her over-the-top presentation, Nikki’s face had an exotic Latino allure that came from sharp, angular bones, deeply tanned skin, long black hair, and dark brown eyes—accentuated with generous amounts of dark eye shadow.
Brad immediately determined he would not be outhustled by a legal assistant for a
Five years later, the party money was gone, and the house was feeling cramped, but the pickup was still going strong. Like a rock. Ralph never regretted the way he spent his windfall.
Now Ralph called from the bedside of his brother Frank at Norfolk General Hospital. Misfortune had again visited the Johnson family, and Ralph was hoping Brad could find another pile of cash to ease the pain. Frank had had the bad luck of navigating an intersection at the same time a sleeping drunk driver in an 18-wheeler blew through a red light and demolished Frank’s vehicle. Ralph was sure this was a case for Brad Carson.
Upon learning the facts, Bella transformed herself into a sugary-sweet grief counselor. But she had a hard time disguising the glee in her voice as she offered Ralph and his brother her deepest condolences. She assured them that Brad would be on the way immediately. Justice would be done. The jerk who caused this terrible tragedy would pay. Dearly.
She talked of justice, but she thought about cash. The case was a gold mine. By the time she hung up the phone, she was practically drooling.
* * *
Brad took the call from Bella on his cell phone and was at the hospital in a flash. He waited briefly for the elevator, lost patience, then bounded up the stairs to the third floor, where Frank Johnson was being treated. He took the stairs two at a time, his feet barely touching the floor, the adrenaline pumping. He always felt this way when he landed a promising new case.
This feeling, this sense of excitement at someone else’s misfortune, always prompted a bout of guilt followed by the same Brad Carson pep talk. The practice of law was so competitive, he reminded himself, there was nothing wrong with feeling good about landing a new case. After all, the damage had already been done, and someone needed to help the man get the money he deserved to get on with his life. Brad was convinced that nobody could do that better than he could. Apparently Frank’s brother agreed. Brad worked hard and got an honest referral. No need to feel bad about that.
Brad put on his best look of professional compassion and stepped inside the door to Frank Johnson’s room. He surveyed the small crowd of people and immediately sensed that something was wrong. Frank was lying uncomfortably in traction, hooked up by tubes to a computer contraption that monitored his vitals and fed him intravenous fluids. Frank’s wife sat by his bedside, holding his hand. Ralph stood next to her with downcast eyes. All of this was typical of the hospital room of an injured client. But the woman with her back to the door was the source of Brad’s discomfort. She was clearly not medical personnel, and Brad sensed trouble.
Ralph sheepishly introduced the stranger as Nikki Moreno, a paralegal for Billy “the Rock” Davenport.
Brad extended his hand to Nikki. In her other hand, and clearly visible to Brad, was a typed contract for legal services. At the bottom of a full page of small print was a signature that Brad assumed belonged to Frank Johnson.
Brad gave her hand a menacing squeeze. Nikki lifted an eyebrow.
She did not look the part of a professional. She was thin—too thin for Brad’s taste—and all legs, which she showed off with a tight miniskirt and three-inch heels. Nikki apparently believed that the gods of style required her to lavishly decorate and puncture her smooth olive skin with a small tattoo on her ankle, a more prominent one on her left shoulder, a pierced navel clearly visible under her cropped blouse, and numerous holes in her ears. Despite her over-the-top presentation, Nikki’s face had an exotic Latino allure that came from sharp, angular bones, deeply tanned skin, long black hair, and dark brown eyes—accentuated with generous amounts of dark eye shadow.
Brad immediately determined he would not be outhustled by a legal assistant for a
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