than desirable.
The weather guy drifted off, and the early-morning newsperson, makeup intact, his hair blow-dried, appeared, his expression solemn as he said, “While this has not been one-hundred-percent confirmed, reliable sources are telling us that there’s been an oil spill at the St. Cloud oil rig. ” Mr. Pretty Boy News Anchor looked down at what Alex presumed was a monitor of some sort, and said, “ This is just coming in now, and, again, not confirmed, that Jake St. Cloud, the son of Jonah St. Cloud, has been seen going out to the rig. The only reason this could be happening, I’m told by a source, is that there is, indeed, an oil spill . We have calls in to the Coast Guard, but so far nothing has been confirmed from them, either. ”
Alex felt his stomach clench into a tight knot. He remembered only too well how the BP oil explosion and the disaster that followed had hurt the people and the state of Louisiana and the whole Gulf region. He’d heard back then, when the rumblings were so fierce, that Jake had been called in months earlier and had warned the oil company of an imminent explosion. He hadn’t paid that much attention at the time because Jake St. Cloud was on his shit list, right up there in the number one spot. Now, he had to pay attention.
Alex continued to gulp at his coffee, getting up to refill his cup. He looked down at the tray of cinnamon buns and realized he’d eaten six of them, which meant he was going to have to run ten miles instead of five after work. He continued to listen as the news anchor started rehashing all the things that had gone wrong with BP and pointing fingers and making veiled accusations.
Alex turned off the coffeemaker and wrapped the remaining sticky buns in plastic wrap. Satisfied that the kitchen was tidy, he rinsed his cup and put it in the dishwasher before sprinting up the stairs to take his morning shower.
Forty minutes later, Alex locked the door and headed for his car. His watch said that it was six forty-five. Fifteen more minutes and he’d have hit rush-hour traffic. By leaving at this time, he’d make it to the office at exactly seven o’clock if he hit every traffic light just right. If not, he’d be strolling into his office at ten after. Time to do what he had to do to get ready for his day, then head off to the courthouse to get his body pounded into the ground by some damn cranky judge who was probably on Jonah St. Cloud’s payroll.
At precisely three minutes to eight, Alex Rosario walked through the courthouse doors and stood patiently behind a long line of lawyers, defendants, and plaintiffs waiting to go through security. When it was his turn, he plopped his briefcase down and emptied his pockets. “No, I don’t have a cell phone on me,” he said to one of the security guards.
On the other side of the scanner, Alex pocketed his keys and loose change and swept his briefcase off the conveyor belt. He strode down the hall in search of the court clerk’s office, where he planned to ask for a ten-minute meeting with St. Tammany Parish Judge Porter Spindler. In the world of the law, ten minutes was a lifetime, or so judges would have you believe.
Alex slowed down as he approached the clerk’s office. He looked around and wondered if all courthouses looked like this one. He’d never tried a case, because he wasn’t a litigator. While he was no stranger to this particular courthouse, he wasn’t all that familiar with it, either. He’d appeared before judges on behalf of his clients and taken his prizes and his lumps like every other lawyer walking around the halls. He sniffed and thought about the different schools he’d attended and how they all smelled the same, of chalk and paper and that green stuff the janitors poured on the floor, whatever it was called. Every day was the same—the smell had never intensified nor lessened all during his school years. The courthouse was the same way, but he couldn’t identify this smell, and it
The weather guy drifted off, and the early-morning newsperson, makeup intact, his hair blow-dried, appeared, his expression solemn as he said, “While this has not been one-hundred-percent confirmed, reliable sources are telling us that there’s been an oil spill at the St. Cloud oil rig. ” Mr. Pretty Boy News Anchor looked down at what Alex presumed was a monitor of some sort, and said, “ This is just coming in now, and, again, not confirmed, that Jake St. Cloud, the son of Jonah St. Cloud, has been seen going out to the rig. The only reason this could be happening, I’m told by a source, is that there is, indeed, an oil spill . We have calls in to the Coast Guard, but so far nothing has been confirmed from them, either. ”
Alex felt his stomach clench into a tight knot. He remembered only too well how the BP oil explosion and the disaster that followed had hurt the people and the state of Louisiana and the whole Gulf region. He’d heard back then, when the rumblings were so fierce, that Jake had been called in months earlier and had warned the oil company of an imminent explosion. He hadn’t paid that much attention at the time because Jake St. Cloud was on his shit list, right up there in the number one spot. Now, he had to pay attention.
Alex continued to gulp at his coffee, getting up to refill his cup. He looked down at the tray of cinnamon buns and realized he’d eaten six of them, which meant he was going to have to run ten miles instead of five after work. He continued to listen as the news anchor started rehashing all the things that had gone wrong with BP and pointing fingers and making veiled accusations.
Alex turned off the coffeemaker and wrapped the remaining sticky buns in plastic wrap. Satisfied that the kitchen was tidy, he rinsed his cup and put it in the dishwasher before sprinting up the stairs to take his morning shower.
Forty minutes later, Alex locked the door and headed for his car. His watch said that it was six forty-five. Fifteen more minutes and he’d have hit rush-hour traffic. By leaving at this time, he’d make it to the office at exactly seven o’clock if he hit every traffic light just right. If not, he’d be strolling into his office at ten after. Time to do what he had to do to get ready for his day, then head off to the courthouse to get his body pounded into the ground by some damn cranky judge who was probably on Jonah St. Cloud’s payroll.
At precisely three minutes to eight, Alex Rosario walked through the courthouse doors and stood patiently behind a long line of lawyers, defendants, and plaintiffs waiting to go through security. When it was his turn, he plopped his briefcase down and emptied his pockets. “No, I don’t have a cell phone on me,” he said to one of the security guards.
On the other side of the scanner, Alex pocketed his keys and loose change and swept his briefcase off the conveyor belt. He strode down the hall in search of the court clerk’s office, where he planned to ask for a ten-minute meeting with St. Tammany Parish Judge Porter Spindler. In the world of the law, ten minutes was a lifetime, or so judges would have you believe.
Alex slowed down as he approached the clerk’s office. He looked around and wondered if all courthouses looked like this one. He’d never tried a case, because he wasn’t a litigator. While he was no stranger to this particular courthouse, he wasn’t all that familiar with it, either. He’d appeared before judges on behalf of his clients and taken his prizes and his lumps like every other lawyer walking around the halls. He sniffed and thought about the different schools he’d attended and how they all smelled the same, of chalk and paper and that green stuff the janitors poured on the floor, whatever it was called. Every day was the same—the smell had never intensified nor lessened all during his school years. The courthouse was the same way, but he couldn’t identify this smell, and it
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