“Because you’re totally whipped, and you want your girl to have the wedding of her dreams,” Stanton says with his trademark smirk.
“I thought getting a wedding planner would make things easier,” Jake says. “I mean, really, who gives a fuck what color the roses are in the table centerpieces.”
“That’s what weddings are all about,” Sofia offers. “Stressing about details you won’t notice on the day you actually get married. Just go with it.”
They should know; Stanton and Sofia got married nine months ago. And they didn’t waste any time in the baby-making department. Sofia’s always been a curvaceous Brazilian bombshell, but now she’s got an extra curve to her—the seven-month baby bump across her middle.
“How’s the little guy treating you today?” I ask.
Her hazel eyes sparkle as she caresses the bump beneath her dark blue maternity dress. “Good. With the amount of kicking he’s doing, he’s going to be one hell of a soccer player.”
Stanton’s thick blond hair falls over his forehead as he looks down, covering her hand with his own. “Nah, he’s gonna be a football player. I’ve been telling him the finer points of the game after you pass out at six o’clock.”
Sofia and Stanton are both sharks in the courtroom. And despite his best efforts, she hasn’t let a little thing like growing a new person inside her slow her down. She pushes herself hard, maybe too hard, judging by the dark circles under her eyes.
I shake my head. “You’re both wrong—football and soccer are for pansies. Lacrosse is a real man’s game. The Native Americans invented it. I’m gonna buy Becker Mason Santos Shaw his very first stick.”
Sofia rolls her eyes. “We’re not naming the baby after the firm, Brent.”
This is an ongoing debate, and I’m determined to win it.
“You have to! It’s a kick-ass name—and he’s our first baby.”
“No, he’s our first baby,” Sofia argues, gesturing to her husband. “Anyway, let’s get started. I have a phone conference at ten.”
We dive into upcoming court dates, motions, new clients, and schedule conflicts.
“Justin Longhorn’s case has been assigned to a new prosecutor,” I tell them a while later. “K. S. Randolph. Any of you heard of him?”
Justin Longhorn is a seventeen-year-old hacker accused of wire fraud, theft, and a whole host of federal crimes, for allegedly tapping into a major bank’s computer system and siphoning money from various retirement accounts. But he’s not a bad kid, he sort of reminds me of Matthew Broderick in WarGames—he didn’t realize he was in deep shit until he was already at Defcon 1.
When they shake their heads, I say, “Well, I’m going to reach out to KS and plead it down. It’s the kid’s first offense and he didn’t spend a dime of the money. Shouldn’t see the inside of a courtroom with this one.”
Then Sofia tells us, “I have a consultation with a new client on Monday.”
Stanton’s green eyes cloud over. “That the aggravated assault?”
“Yep, the guy who went after his sister’s boyfriend with a hammer.”
“I don’t think so, Soph.”
She holds up her hand. “Don’t start.”
But start he does. “You’re seven months pregnant! I don’t want you anywhere near violent scumbags like that.”
Can’t say I blame him there.
Sofia doesn’t see it that way. “It’s my job to be around them. You’re being ridiculous.”
In a mix of begging and commanding, he comes back with, “Take the deadbeat dad cases. Take all the tax evasion, money laundering, and federal corruption. Hell, I’ll even be generous and throw in a drug addict or two, as long as they—”
Sofia stands. “Generous? No. You don’t get to—”
She stops suddenly. Her caramel skin goes pale and her hand rises to her lips. But she tries again. “You can’t—”
And then she’s running for the bathroom. Thankfully it’s close, connected to the conference room, and before she can get the door fully closed the sounds of wretched puking fill the room.
We listen in silence, flinching with every scraping heave and landing splash.
Wow. Pregnancy sucks.
Brows furrowed, Jake asks, “I thought the morning sickness was supposed to stop after the first trimester?”
Stanton’s mouth twists. “Apparently the baby’s unaware of that fact.”
A few minutes later—after the toilet flushes and the sink runs—Sofia emerges, looking unsteady and ashen. But her eyes still breathe fire.
“Not a word,” she warns Stanton. “Not a single word.”
The southern boy lets it go for now. He brushes her hair back tenderly. “Even if the words are crackers and ginger ale? There’s some in the break room. You want me to get them for you?”
She smiles, soft and loving. “Yes, please. Thank you.”
With a nod, he leaves the room. Sofia doesn’t sit down, holding the back of her chair for support.
“Okay, I’m just gonna say it,” Jake tells her. “You look like shit, Sofia.”