Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
“I’ve whittled the cases down to two that need help. One is a girl whose mother has allowed her to hang out in some dive bar across the street. A few of the neighbors have contacted us. The other is a kid whose uncle keeps him in the same enclosure as a large dog; a relative informed us about it. It’s the only way we would’ve heard since it’s on the city’s outskirts. I’m taking the dog.”
He gives me one of his looks. It doesn’t take much to decode it. He’s basically telling me—without saying it—that there’s a chance he goes out to this place and the dog mauls him. Or the psycho uncle beats him up. He’s giving me a look that says, You’ve got the easy job.
“Where’s the file?” I ask bluntly.
The bitter truth is there are never any easy jobs in this profession.
CHAPTER THREE
LANDON
“We can always find the time,” Ethan says, giving me a searching look across our shared office. We’ve shared an office since we started the agency, a promise we made a decade ago that we’d always be equals. He’s tall, on the bulky, muscular side, with full dark black hair slicked back and a gold watch winking at his wrist. “What sort of pro bono work are you thinking?”
“A couple of parents in an apartment block in The Row want to sue a local gang for noise complaints.”
“Noise complaints?” Ethan says doubtfully.
“There’s more to it. The gang has been trying to draw kids to their bar. God knows why, but we know it can’t be good. If they can get the bar closed down for noise, maybe they’ll move on.”
Ethan nods. “Find another bar, find some more kids …”
I grit my teeth. “Don’t start that crap.”
He fiddles with his watch. “It’s not crap, Landon. It’s just a fact that these sorts of people will always find somewhere to pull their stunts. If you get this bar shut down …”
“Then where does it end?” I growl, sitting up and thinking, months, not years. “If doing good has no meaning, then we should just sit here waiting for the next starlet to decide to leave her husband.”
“Ah, so our entire business is a joke. People need divorce lawyers, dammit.”
“I never said it was a joke. I’m not putting down our business; I’m not putting this stuff down either.”
He raises his hands. “All right. Jeez.” After a pause, he says, “Are you okay, Landon? You’ve been in a bad mood all morning.”
“I’m fine,” I grunt.
I don’t tell him the doctor’s office tried calling me on the way to work. I let it go to voicemail. Mr. Cross, we’re calling to arrange an appointment with the oncologist. That will mean hearing in more detail about how the years of my life have suddenly squashed into months. It’ll just mean medical terms and elaborate explanations to explain why this pro bono case might be my last.
“If it doesn’t interfere with our work, I can do any damn thing I want.”
“I know that’s what we agreed,” Ethan says. “It’s just been so long since you wanted to do any pro bono.”
I turn to my laptop to the parents’ public message calling for legal help. I don’t want to think about the fact that Ethan is right. I haven’t mentioned pro bono work in almost half a decade. I used to do it all the time, but then it was like …
What? Did I become too comfortable? Did I let this high-paying job, my deluxe gym membership, and the skiing trips get to my head?
“These people need help,” I snap.
“Then there’s nothing more to talk about. Good luck.”
I grind my teeth from side to side. It’s almost like something in me wants to fight—eager for it. I feel like something is boiling in me. Maybe it’s the goddamn tumor. Perhaps it’s the final act closing in, every second suddenly vital, every moment suddenly infused with meaning.
When I’m gone, will I care how many divorce settlements I won?
As I drive to The Row, the rundown apartment blocks that have existed here since the seventies, somehow, I can hear Charley talking to me from the backseat. “You always wanted to help people, ever since you were a kid.” But when a man has the chance to build a million-dollar business, he makes it work. He finds ways to justify it. I give a lot of money to charity.
I stop outside the rundown apartment block. The brown façade faded over time, and chips, cuts, and marks cover the front door. The bar sits directly across the street, and the roads here are narrower than the rest of the city. In other areas, there would be laws against the bar being this close, but not here, probably owing to some obscure bylaw or exception going back decades.