Total pages in book: 54
Estimated words: 50656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 50656 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 253(@200wpm)___ 203(@250wpm)___ 169(@300wpm)
With a glimmer of confidence, I take another sip of my wine. Aaron and I went over the basics and in only hours I will figure out exactly how we nail this prick with first-degree murder and nothing else.
“Jones.” Patterson’s voice startles me, but not so much that I show it. Giving him a professional smile, I offer the experienced man a nod in greeting.
“How are you doing tonight?” he asks, but doesn’t give me a moment to respond before adding, “I heard you got a whopper of a case.”
A whopper. Patterson’s from somewhere in the Midwest, I think. Maybe he wants to know details, I’m not sure. But he should know better than to think I’d give him any. He’s a defense attorney and none of his clients have anything to do with any of mine. So this is … peculiar.
“You know how it is,” I answer him with a shrug that brings his attention to my blush-colored blouse. But not to my shoulders. His gaze dips lower and the heat of embarrassment creeps up my chest. “When you have a series of plea bargains and boring cases, you get hit with a difficult one to throw you off.” Setting my wineglass on the table and pushing it away slightly, I add, “Can’t have too many easy ones, can we?”
Patterson looks between the glass, my chest, and my face. The slight sway in his stance and the red in his cheeks betray any air of being sober the man has. He’s simply had too much to drink.
“That’s true,” he comments, pointing at me with the hand he’s also using to hold his whiskey. The ice tinks on the glass. My father’s a whiskey drinker. Never on the rocks though. He said the ice melts and weakens it.
The thought reminds me that Patterson is old enough to be my father and rich enough to buy him four times over.
Patterson seats himself, occupying the chair Aaron recently left empty. “You know when I worked with your father years ago, he used to say the same thing.”
My father was a lawyer decades ago. Pride wore on his face the day I told him I was going to law school. I’ll never forget that day. But his career was incredibly short-lived. The lifestyle, he told me, simply didn’t suit him and Mom wanted to move back home.
“Is that why he gave it up? It was too easy for him? Or are the stocks just paying better?” Patterson questions me.
I shrug again and this time when Patterson’s gaze drops, I lift my glass of wine to block what little of my cleavage could possibly show from that angle.
“My mom wanted to move back home,” I answer straight-faced. We never wanted for anything and grew up in a nice enough area. It may have been a small town and not anything like New York City, but we were well-off. Maybe not as well-off as Patterson; I have no idea. “I’m sure he would have stayed had he known what the firm would become,” I offer him with a polite smile and a nod of recognition.
There’s a murmur of agreement from Patterson and then he takes a swig of his drink. I look away, not wanting to continue the conversation.
Patterson knows far more than I do about my father’s departure. I’m not privy to my parents’ decisions back then. And I don’t like to have conversations involving sensitive topics knowing I’m lacking relevant details on said topic.
“You know I was surprised you came down here of all places.” Patterson doesn’t quit, leaning back in his seat. “I get it, wanting to stay on the case and transfer…” he pauses and nods, dropping his head. “That’s commitment,” he comments into his lap and raising his brow, which forms a series of lines on his forehead.
“I was just starting and took it as a sign.”
“What’s that?” he questions, not following and I don’t know if it’s because of the whiskey or because, like my mother said, it was crazy that I was moving to stay with a case.
“The firm was a starting point so when the offer came up and evidence led us here, it seemed like a sign. Like I was meant to get into federal criminal law.”
“And what did your father think of that?” Patterson questions. “I’m sure he was able to help you. He has strings to pull. But to help you go into federal criminal law…” he trails off and makes a face just then. One I’d like to punch but instead I simply smile.
My father and him were defense attorneys. “Working for the prosecution shocked him, but my involvement and dedication didn’t.” I give him the same answer I gave Claire five years ago. And just like her, he nods with understanding.
“You certainly worked your ass off to get here.”