Reasonable Doubts (3 page)
Authors: Evie Adams
When I walked in the place I wanted to scream at him. But the way he looked at me, his eyes getting wide, hopeful, narrowing to a point as he recognized me.
He stood me up, lied, and now was forcing me to drink at a bar after work. I should have killed him, quit, left, done. But I didn't.
By the third drink, his charm was killing my resistance. When everything was off, he was charming, an asshole, but a charming asshole.
I knew I should run from an arrogant prick with an Oedipus complex, but I stayed, and drank, and noticed the dimples at the corner of his mouth after he said something, and his yes flash at me, they were slaying my resistance.
Thank fully he kept being an asshole.
The back room was small and cramped and we were forced to sit way too close to each other, huddled over the small desk. I smelled leather and musk when he took his jacket off and soap when he loosened his collar and rolled up his sleeves. It was making me dizzy.
We agreed not to go over his closing, but a different case first and see if that shed any light on Josh's case. The case was another personal injury. This time an animal attack. Some rich old lady had a jaguar for a pet in her 2000 square foot penthouse. She was the kind of lady that would leave millions to a pet dog or something. A strange eccentric who thought rules didn't apply to her.
It snapped and attacked the maid one day, mauled her, almost killed her. Terrible, but the lady had deep pockets, so good for our client, the maid.
Usually for pets, like a dog, you get one bite free. As soon as the animal bites or attacks a person, then it becomes a dangerous animal, and the owner has to take precautions, chain it up, train it, muzzle it, some sort of protection for the rest of the people on the planet.
Until it bites or attacks, its assumed to be a pet like any other, not inherently dangerous, but once it bites or attacks once, it's like having a loaded gun around.
But for an actual wild animal like a jaguar, the law treats it like a loaded gun right away.
“We have a good case. But the jury still needs to see it our way,” I told him.
“The jury is unimportant, the facts are all we need.”
“They still need to care for our client more than the lonely old lady or the animal. First, it was cruel to cage a wild animal like that up in a small New York apartment. Something used to hunting over 100's of acres of the rainforest boxed up in a small apartment with New York City ambulances, police, and other noises driving it crazy. We need a jury that can feel bad for the animal, and hold it against the owner. ”
His aggression flashed, unfettered. His naked forearms grazed my hands as he flipped the pages of my report closed, “This case isn't about any of that. It's about a dangerous animal, strict liability. It's about a juror who is not an idiot and can see having a jaguar in a 2000 square foot Manhattan penthouse is like smoking a cigarette while pumping gas in your car. Pure stupidity! You may get away with it a few times, 9 out of 10 times, but you ask for trouble. The one time out of 10 blows you and the gas station up. This isn’t about finding a juror who has cat sweaters or finds them cute. You want me to strike a juror because she likes cats? Are you fucking insane or just severely stupid?”
I could have slapped him, but this was part of his strategy, to rile me up, to piss me off, to make me lose my cool. It wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t work any
more
. I stomped on my emotions and calmed my voice, “I'm saying you need to question the jurors about their pets. Some people like animals more than people, and there’s nothing really wrong with that. It’s understandable, people fuck you over, let you down, disappoint you and worse. Animals are simple, they offer unconditional love in return for food, shelter, and occasional kindness. Very simple. But our ideal juror in this case, will, like you said, look at this case like the animal was a dangerous weapon, a loaded gun, a cigarette while pumping gas. They won't look at it like a companion for a lonely old woman who had been let down by people her whole life and turned to animals. All the defense has is just that. Kind stories, adorable pictures of her and the animal, evidence of their relationship, how it never hurt her, so therefore the plaintiff, our client must have been aggressive towards the animal or the sweet old lady or both. That's the defense, that's all they have. To blame our client and hope someone feels more for the animal and the old lady than our client. We need people who will not. Who will see the lit cigarette next to 1,000 gallons of gas.”
He stood and leaned into me, over me. “So now you want a jury full of animal haters? Should I ask them if they ever kicked puppies? If they ever drowned kittens in a sack in a river? Stuck fire crackers in frogs buts? You want serial killers on my jury?”
I stood up to face him, I’d be damned if he stood over me and yelled, trying to intimidate. “No, psychopaths don't care about animals or people.”
“You want a jury that doesn't watch animal planet? That's the sum of your legal analysis and psychological profiles? People who don't find animals cute means we win the case? How much are we paying you for this idiocy?”
I slapped him. All of the coolness, all of the self-control went away. He deserved it. He deserved worse. It was either kiss him or slap him or kill him or fuck him.
A feral grin appeared on his face, he had won, got what he wanted, he closed the inches between us in an instant, those soft lips on mine, those forearms on my hips.
It wasn't the selfish sort of kiss I expected. It was passionate, insistent, and powerful. The kind of kiss you dream about, as he held me, squeezed me almost forced the breath out of me as his tongue plundered my mouth.
His hand was on my bra and mine reached for his belt, his hands grabbed my ass and lifted me effortlessly on the desk. I felt powerless in his arms. I felt his cock hard in my hands, punching through his pants, ready for me. He broke off my mouth and began kissing my neck, from my ear lobe on down, the top of my neck he kissed and sucked, licked, when he breathed in I got a cool sensation on the part of my neck that was wet with his saliva, then a moment later, his hot breath flamed over the same spot and gave me chills, like this he kissed lower and lower, my mind fluttered between what he was doing to my neck, and to what his hands were doing on my ass and the other hand, surprisingly, found its way to my bra and unclasped it in a flash, it felt like he had four hands all after my body, overwhelming me. My skirt was too tight to allow me to spread my legs and take his hips closer, so he pushed it up and grabbed my hips, crushing the black silk of my panties directly against the heat of his erection. I could feel it through his pants, as we rocked together.
"Oh god," I moaned softly when he broke off to stroke my breasts through my dress, kissing the swell of my cleavage. I could see the hunger in his eyes when he looked up at me.
He slipped a hand behind my neck, pulling my mouth down to his, kissing me breathless. When I slid my hand between us to feel the length of his cock through the thin material, he groaned against my mouth, arching up. I couldn’t stand it.
Jesus I wanted him to fuck me, to bend me over the desk, rip my skirt up, push my panties to the side and take me, fuck me before I thought about it.
But too late.
“No, we can't.” I moaned and slid away.
“Of course we can. People do this all the time. It’s natural.” He groaned.
“That’s not what I mean.” I slid off the other side of the desk, away from him, I half hoped he would jump over it and stop me, but he slammed his hands down and leaned forward.
“I don't want to fight with you or work with you. I just want to fuck you. This right here, right now is the only thing in the whole world. I've never wanted to fuck someone so bad.”
I couldn’t do this. My body and my mind went so crazy I didn't know what to do.
I slapped him again.
His face showed surprise, then aggression again, he looked like a caged animal, he could barely control himself. And if I stayed for a single second longer, neither could I.
I left without my case notes, the files, without anything, I left the office and the bar and the street.
I wished he hadn't stopped.
I expected tears, I insulted her intelligence, her job, her credentials, the only things left for me to do was pull her hair, call her fat, or tell her her shoes didn't match the rest of her outfit. Stupid and childish, I know, but this woman made me want to hit my head against the wall. It was supposed to be a nice night, where we talk quietly, have a few drinks and maybe, just maybe I get laid.
She was ruining my plan.
There were no tears, no wavering in her confidence or contempt for me. All I got was a flash of white, and red pain as she slapped me. When the pain hit, I didn't want to slap her back, no I wanted to do much worse.
I kissed her, hard, long, wet, she kissed back.
Then she ran away.
I went out, and she was making her way out onto the street, as she pushed against the glass door, she looked back, I smiled at her, she breathed out hard, as if she had just made a huge mistake, and pushed against the door.
Still got it.
I walked to the bathroom, I ran the cold water and looked in the mirror. A little red from the hit. More red from the smudged lipstick.
I could smell her still, feel those soft lips almost trembling as they met mine.
Focus.
I washed my face in the cold water and calmed down.
I don't date women, I don't think about them.
I don't pine after them.
I move on.
That's what I do.
I cupped the cold water and splashed it over my face again, as I heard the door open.
“There you are, all done with working with what's her face?”
Corinne, the sort of girl who follows you into the bathroom, or pulls you into the ladies room.
Perfect to get my mind off the case, and Laura.
“Not tonight sweetheart, I have an early morning.”
“How about I just keep you company then?”
“Another time.”
I have rules and one is I don’t take women home. They spend the night, then they bring a toothbrush, next they have clothes and a key, and a box of tampons, and you’re done for.
I gathered up Laura’s files and notes and brought them home.
Sitting in a courtroom is my favorite thing in the world. My nerves are shot and I have no idea how I'm going to pull out a victory here, but I'm confident I'll win.
I have to win.
The counsel for the defense has just been talking for three hours straight, going over his exhibits, arguing that his client, MacArthur Machines could not possibly be responsible for my client's injuries.
The jury is bored to death.
I'm worried.
But my client, Mr. Joshua Armstrong (I shit you not, that's his actual last name). He looks over and smiles at me, knowing that I can't possibly lose. Knowing I can't possibly send him home without fulfilling my two promises of 1) making MacArthur Machines change the way they do business, and 2) get him the money he needs to get on with his life.
That smile of his, his complete faith in me, he knows there is no way that I can't do what I promised him and make sure MacArthur Machines spends $35 next time for a guard on their machine to prevent another accident like his from happening to someone else.
He is positive I'll keep my promise that our victory here today will put every other company like MacArthur on notice that they can't cut corners and save a few dollars, because a verdict like the one I promised him can put them out of business. No government regulation, no amount of fines can scare them like an 8 figure verdict, and an army of a million greedy lawyers using this case as precedent to sue all of them for 8 figures too.
He knows I can't lose, but I don't.
If he had arms, he would hug me.
He can't hug me or anyone anymore because he lost both his arms to the MacArthur Machine, but still somehow (god love him) has a sense of humor about his last name (“Not strong enough, ha, ha, ha”).
He has all the faith in the world in me.
I have notebooks full of my arguments and briefcases full of exhibits and diagrams of the machines, research about the safety guards, and I've spent every waking hour for the last three months putting it all together.
But looking at the jury, they're bored, and they're tired and they're hungry because the defense lawyer bored them to death all morning.
And they'll hold that against me if I bore them too.
F. Stuart Mitchell, the defense counsel, and total douche bag (anyone with a name like F. Stuart is a douche bag) has just rested his case and looks satisfied as he grins at me.
There is a way to wipe that grin off his face, but I have no idea what it is yet.
This damn blue tie, I needed a red on for closing, like Tiger woods wears all red on the final day of a tournament, a red tie was my victory color too.
Laura’s fault.
Or maybe it was going out to the bar last night instead of sitting in the law library. I had Laura’s files and reports in front of me, but they did no good.
The judge addresses me, “Attorney Hughes, would you like to start now, or break for lunch and start fresh?”
“Your honor,” I answered, “I think we can all use a good lunch.”
And hope for a fire so I can prepare a new closing argument.
I looked around the courtroom, and there she was, a few rows back, we locked eyes for a moment, I smiled and she looked away.
I felt her slap from last night against my face, and then a miracle happened, they still do sometimes.
I had an idea. Maybe the best one I've ever had. At least a close second to when I joined the cheerleader squad in high school, that idea was genius, but this one was close.
Laura had popped in my mind, and right after her, the solution. The key to the case.
Everything slowed down and clicked in that instant. These moments don't happen often, but the only way I can explain it is all the noise and distraction goes away, my vision telescopes down to where the only thing I can see is the solution, and nothing else exists in the world.
Not me, not my client, not the jury, not F. Stuart and his smug smirk.
Only the solution.
I speak up quick, before the judge can bang his gavel, “But, before we adjourn for lunch your honor, can I have 5 minutes to address the jury?”
“Of course.” The judge answered. I swear I could hear disappointment and hunger in his voice. The jury shifted in their seats, already bored with whatever I was going to say, and thinking about lunch, but they were in for a surprise, that's exactly what I wanted.
I gave F. Stuart my best grin and walked to the jury box to address them personally.
I catch Laura’s eye, and give her a wink.