“No, it doesn’t, Stanton. I’m not going to feed into your ‘barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen’ fantasy!”
Stanton leans forward. “You’re more than welcome to wear shoes. I’m partial to heels.”
Yeah, that’s gonna go over real well.
Then Stanton—displaying none of his trademark charm—loses it. “You’re my wife, this is our son! I’m not gonna stand by and let either of you get hurt—so you’re done with the violent assholes and drug addicts. You want to sit behind your desk, put your feet up with a nice tax evader or money launderer, be my fucking guest!”
“That’s not a decision you get to make!”
“I just did!”
Under my breath, I tell Jake, “I hate it when Mom and Dad fight.”
He cracks a smile.
Sofia glares smugly at her husband. “Then it’s a good thing this is an equal partnership, and we make those kinds of firm decisions together.”
Stanton nods, unconcerned. “Good point. We should vote on it—since it is a firm decision.”
Sofia’s smug smile falters.
“Jake?” Stanton asks, gaze focused on his wife.
There’s a pause for just one beat, and Jake says, “I agree with Stanton.”
Sofia’s face tightens, but before she can argue, he goes on. “Soldiers, firefighters, policewomen all go on restricted duty when they’re pregnant.”
“But I’m not any of those things!” She throws up her hands. “I don’t have to carry people out of burning buildings or avoid mortar fire, goddamn it!”
Jake’s voice is firm as steel. “Still not worth the risk of some asshole lashing out at you. And it’s got nothing to do with you being a chick—if Stanton was the incubator, I’d say the exact same fucking thing to him. Thank God that’s not the case.”
Stanton’s self-satisfaction fills the air and echoes in his voice. “Brent? What’s your vote?”
Sofia’s hazel eyes turn to me pleadingly.
I look her right in the face. “You’re one of my best friends, so I can tell you that I think you’re being an idiot.”
“But—”
I hold up my hand. “It’s a few weeks of limited clients—not the end of the world. And it’ll give all of us peace of mind.”
Then I channel my inner-Waldo.
“You don’t have to prove anything to us, Sofia—though maybe you feel like you have to prove something to yourself. But it’s not worth your health. Or the health of little Becker Mason Santos Shaw.”
Stanton chuckles. “Thank you.”
“Not so fast—I’m not finished.” I take a breath. “Although I see your point, Sofia’s a grown woman, not a child. I’m not going to take the decision away from her. So my vote is to do whatever Sofia wants to do.”
Stanton grinds his teeth. “Are you shittin’ me?”
“Nope.”
Sofia folds her arms victoriously. “Thank you, Brent.”
But Stanton’s not done. Because even though we’re the same age, the three of them have always looked at me like a kid brother or something. Like I need to be taught or lectured. I don’t know where the fuck that comes from—I mean, there must be a ton of grown men who have a whole shelf in their office just for comic books.
Right?
Stanton gets that Big Daddy look on his face and tells me, “One of these days you’re gonna care about someone more than you care about yourself. And then you’ll know what this feels like—and why you just voted wrong.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, but my vote still stands.” I check my watch. “And now I have to go get my ass handed to me in court.”
As I turn and walk out the door, I hear Stanton threatening to call Sofia’s mother.
Sofia’s a badass, but she’s also a bit of a drama queen.
“You bring my mother into this, I’ll never forgive you!”
And I can hear the wink in her husband’s voice. “Forever’s a long time, darlin’. I’ll take my chances.”
? ? ?
A couple of hours later, Kennedy has one of Justin Longhorn’s victims on the stand. She wrapped up the more technical part of her case yesterday, and while Sofia gave a strong cross-examination, damage was done.
But not nearly as much as the damage that’s occurring right now.
Because Kennedy—looking as delicious as a vanilla cupcake in her form-fitting cream suit—is questioning Eloise Potter. A tiny, gray-haired, soft-voiced, totally fucking adorable little old lady.
She looks like my Gram-Gram. She looks like everyone’s Gram-Gram.
By the time Kennedy’s done walking her through how she painstakingly pinched pennies all her life, to plan for her and Mr. Potter’s retirement—after she tearfully recounts the devastation and fear of seeing that life savings literally disappear—the jury is looking at my client like he’s the long-lost Menendez brother. They’re the monsters who blew both their parents away with shotguns just to get their hands on their inheritance, in case you weren’t sure.
So, yeah—not good.
“That’s all for now, Your Honor,” Kennedy tells the judge.