And this particular apple sure stuck close to the tree.
I lean back in my chair as he continues to whine to his father about the unfair rules of the flight crew and all he wants done in retribution. I’m a criminal defense attorney at Adams & Williamson—one of an elite group of rising stars at this firm. But this is the year that counts. It’s time to pull away from the pack—to demonstrate to the partners that I’m one of their own. The stud in the stable. The best.
Unlike my coworkers, who also happen to be my closest friends, I’m not hindered by time suckers like family, girlfriends, marriage, and kids—the ultimate third rail for any career-driven adult. My lack of outside distractions makes proving my commitment to the firm, displaying my skill, just a little bit easier. I like my job. Wouldn’t say I love it—but I’m really fucking good at it. It’s interesting. Challenging. Keeps me on my toes. Because criminal defense isn’t about defending the weak or protecting the innocent—it’s a game. Taking the hand you’re dealt, the facts of the case, and spinning them to your advantage. Outsmarting, outmaneuvering the prosecution. Winning when all the odds say you can’t.
The downside?
I have to spend my time with fucknuts like Milton Bradley.
He slips a cigarette out from his pocket and lights it with a flick of his Zippo. He jerks his head, flopping his thin blond hair back off his forehead as he releases a cloud of toxic smoke from his nostrils. Like an impotent dragon who doesn’t know how to blow fire.
“You can’t smoke in here.”
“Who says?” he replies with a challenge in his eyes.
Moving smoothly, I’m out of my chair and in front of him, looming like a black cloud ready to thunder. I’m aware of my size—six five, two hundred and twenty-five pounds of rock-solid muscle—and the effect it has on people. I’m pretty goddamn intimidating, even when I’m not trying to be. But at the moment?
I’m trying.
“I say.” My voice is low—menacingly quiet.
When you mean what you say and say exactly what you mean, there’s rarely a need to raise your voice. Yelling is a sign of desperation, an indication that you’re out of options, with nothing behind your back but volume.
I hold out a styrofoam cup with a bit of cold coffee left on the bottom. Without a word of complaint, Milton drops his cigarette into the liquid. It goes out with a hiss, leaving an unpleasant odor in its wake.
Most of my clients are wealthy, some not so much. But they all find their way to my office door because of similar personality traits. They’re cheats, con men, those who think they’re above the rules the rest of us have to follow, general lowlifes, their violent nature concealed by a smiling face. Criminal defense really isn’t so different from proctology. In both fields, it’s one asshole after another. This line of work isn’t for the faint of heart—you have to have a strong stomach. And my stomach is steel.
“How do we make this go away, Jake?” the elder Bradley asks from his chair beside his son. His eyes, nearly as black as his suit, regard me with an acceptable level of respect. Because he understands what his progeny doesn’t: that while I may work for him, he needs me more than I will ever need him.
I walk back behind my desk and look over the arrest report in front of me.
“The witnesses said your behavior was erratic—threatening.”
“They’re lying. Envious slime,” Milton sneers.
“The stewardess said she smelled marijuana when you exited the first-class cabin bathroom.”
His eyes shift nervously to his father for just a moment, then settle back on me. Chin raised—so offended. “I smelled it too. Must have been one of the other passengers.”
I make a note on the file, just to amuse myself. I’ve passed kidney stones bigger than this kid’s brain.
Justifications and explanations. Some days I feel like I’ve heard them all. I couldn’t help myself. He made me do it. She asked for it. I was asleep. I was walking the goddamn dog. It’d be nice if they put at least a little effort into their bullshit. Originality used to mean something.
“Some advice for future reference?” I tell young, entitled Milton. “Don’t screw around with the Federal Aviation Administration. They’re very sensitive these days and they’ve got the budget to make your life miserable.” Then I turn to the father. “And in answer to your question, Malcolm, it’d be easier to make this go away if your son could refrain from getting himself arrested every few weeks.”
Two DUIs, a disorderly conduct, and an assault in a bar fight—all within just the last three months. I bet you think that’s some kind of record.
It’s not.
“So you’re saying we can’t win?” Milton asks, his voice cracking like he’s Bobby from The Brady Bunch.