“Do you want whipped cream with that?” says a voice. It restarts my sluggish mind, bringing me away from my thoughts and back into reality.
“Hmm?” I openly ponder. The purpose concerning these words is temporarily lost on me.
“Whipped cream? For your drink?” the holder of the voice, a woman, says to me. Her bored, hazel eyes bore into me, seeking answers.
“Oh. No.” I shake my head. “I don’t want any, thanks.”
“Pay attention, buddy,” says a guy behind me.
“Sorry!” I offer him and the other people in line behind me an apologetic wave. My order is rung up, I pay, then step aside for the others.
The machine making my drink cranks to life. I watch the entire process without a thought until the task ceases. One of the baristas picks up the blender, pours the contents into a giant plastic cup, snaps a lid on, then slides it to me across the counter. She offers me a paltry grin. “Enjoy.”
“Thanks,” I mutter.
I exit the coffee shop into the bustling city. Immediately, figures bump into me. My mere entrance into reality once again creates a disruption.
“What? Didn’t get me anything?” speaks Scott, a friend from work. My only friend from work.
My face deadens. “You said you didn’t want anything.”
“You’ve got to treat me like a woman, Felix.” Scott flattens out his wrist, sticking his hand towards me in a sarcastic gesture. “When I say one thing, I mean another. Context, Felix. Can’t you read my mind? You’re supposed to.”
I roll my eyes. Seems like his marriage is going well.
How to describe Scott? Hmm. He’s not very distinct. An average-looking man, very skinny, with sandy hair kept in a sort of John Krasinski way. He has a gentle smile with the slight shadow of a beard shaved just this morning, it seems. A plaid shirt is tucked into tight khaki pants adorned at the bottom with well-worn dress shoes. A modest suit jacket pulls it all together.
Scott is a good guy, and I empathize with his sarcastic tendencies. I can’t really say when we started to hang out. It’s like that with men. One day you say ‘hello’ to someone, and the next day you’re having drinks like your life-long friends.
I offer Scott after taking a drastic sip from my cup. “You can have my drink if you want.”
Scott’s mouth wrinkles in disgust. “Of your sugary garbage? I’ll pass.”
The two of us begin walking down the street. Our bodies become a part of the train of zombie-like commuters burdening the New York sidewalks. Our office is down the road suspended upon the fiftieth floor in a large building, but we’re not headed there. We’re headed to the local jail to spend our time talking to clients. A joyous responsibility if there ever were one.
“You gonna come out with me after work?” Scott urges me with his leading question.
“Of course,” I say quickly, even though I already regret the reply. “After a day like today, I’ll be itching for a cold beer,” I fib. I’d sooner go to bed early tonight, but I’ve got to make sacrifices like these, or I won’t have anyone in my life.
“I know what you mean.” Scott slaps the center of his stomach. “Job‘s gonna kill me one of these days.” He glimpses across at me. “Maybe we’ll stick to light beer. You’ll start getting a gut soon, too, if you’re not careful.”
“Glad to hear you say that.”
“It’s okay to be big and fat when you’re married, but you can’t get a beautiful woman to love you with a gut hanging over your belt.”
“I thought all you needed was money?”
“What? Are you going to show them your black card at the club? Toss them a wad of cash right at their foreheads?”
“If it works,” I quip. “Not that I go to clubs anyways. Or have that kind of money. Not with this job.”
Scott sighs. “Being a public defender is a thankless career, and the pay is shit. Our own clients hate us. Hell, I’m on the docket to meet around twenty people today. You?”
“Twenty-seven,” I mutter. My overall caseload is well into the triple digits. This is exactly what I needed. More clients.
“Why the hell do you have so many?” Scott crinkles his nose. “You’re gonna run yourself ragged.”
“A few people at our office have prior obligations. They passed on their files to me asking if I could help them get through this initial phase, saying they’ll pick up the caseload at the back end.”
“Even though you’ll essentially have the issue settled in the first meeting for most of them, right?”
“Pretty much.”
“And they know that?”
“Probably.”
“Why do you let people keep doing that to you?” Scott grunts. “Don’t you like free time? I’d have told them to shove it up their asses.”
“It’s not like I mind,” I lie. “It’s never bad to help someone, and this gives me more opportunities to do that.”
“Well, you’re a better man than I.” Scott pats my shoulder. “Hey, I’ll buy the first round tonight to ease your burden. What do you say?”
“Sounds peeeeerfect,” I stress.
•
“I didn’t do that shit!” yells the man in front of me, my client.
A large white man. Shaved head. Tattoos up both of his arms. If you had to whip up a character design for a criminal in a B-grade movie, this guy would be perfect.
Of course, as his attorney, I cannot act upon my baser urges, and they wouldn’t even reflect reality. The guy is a biker, but he’s also a first-time offender. It’s hard to discern that by looking at the man, but his paperwork doesn’t lie.
“The evidence unfortunately appears to reflect a different story, Mr. Derricks,” I say while flipping through his file.
“What?” the guy roars. He’s visibly annoyed.
“As your lawyer, I’m allowed to possess information that the prosecution will use against you if this goes to court,” I begin. “Let’s see here…the breathalyzer came back with a 0.18. The limit in this state is 0.08. That’s a little more than two beers by the way. There’s paperwork indicating that the equipment was properly calibrated and maintained, so we can’t go that route if you want to challenge it. The cop says you got belligerent and pushed him before complying to be put in the back of his car. Body cam footage confirms this. They provided me with a copy in case I did not believe them. They also happened to throw in a few screenshots for reference.”
“So you’re telling me to plead guilty?”
“The evidence here is solid. But I’m here as your advisor. If you want to go through with a trial even with all this evidence, I’ll do my best to support you, but the odds of success are very low.”
“Ah shit.” The man appears taken aback. He reclines in the metal seat opposite of me. “What do you think I should do?”
“The prosecution offered you a sweetheart deal since this is not only your first DUI offense but also your first offense on record.” I extract some documents. “Here we go. The real issue is the confrontation with the cop. Normally, they’d press charges for that. They’re saying if you give the officer a formal apology and pay the $400 fine, you’ll merely get points on your license.”
“Is that good?”
“It is that or go to court, likely lose, and spend a few months in jail.” I smile. “You can thank the overly burdened court system for the lax punishment. You’re the least of their worries, it seems. You’re lucky. Take the hint.”
“Oh.” The man looks at me. He blinks a few times. “I think I’ll accept the offer.”
“Then I’ll give them a call and let them know you accepted. You’ll be let out later today once the acceptance goes through.”
After that overly exciting interaction, I exit the room. I nod to the officer standing outside. He gestures back before re-entering the room I just left.
A big sigh leaves me. “Doooone!” I spread my arms behind my back. “Got a bunch of calls to make, but I’m ready for the day to be over! Tomorrow’s an office day, so it’ll be more laid back. Only a twelve-hour day, probably.”
I draw up my phone. Two messages fill my screen.
The first is from Scott. It’s conveying that he’ll be off around seven if I still want to get drinks.
Dammit, I thought he’d forgotten about that. What am I saying? Scott likes to drink. There’s no way he’d forget.
I reply that I’ll be there. It’s about two hours from now. I’ll head in early, and get some dinner. It’s our usual place, a hole-in-the-wall bar downtown. Good chicken quesadillas.
The second message is from an associate in our practice, Clarice, someone on the equivalent level as me attorney-wise. A simple message telling me to call her back quickly.
“Probably going to push her work onto me,” I grumble. “Won’t be shocking at all.”
Clarice answers on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hey, Clarice. You said to call you back?”
“Yeah, yeah. Sorry about this. Do you mind covering for me at the jail?” Clarice proposes. Her voice abrades my ears upon issuing that proposal.
“You got a meeting with a client?”
“When don’t I? Listen, my kid missed the bus today. I had to walk him to school. I haven’t had anything to eat yet, and I’m starting to get a headache. I stopped for a late lunch. Totally forgot about the meeting. You mind helping me out here? It’d be making my day a lot easier.”
Yeah, your day. I’ve already had a full fucking day. Now I’ve got to deal with your shit, too?
I don’t have to help her. I suppose that’s true. But…I don’t have a good reason not to help her out either. If her excuses are genuine, then I’d feel bad. I’m a bleeding heart pushover. Besides, what do I gain from not helping? I get to go home early? That’s lazy. Get drinks with Scott? As it is, I’ll be early. This might kill some time in between. Besides, Clarice’s client doesn’t deserve to suffer because of her.
“I don’t see why not,” I say into the phone. My teeth set firmly. “E-mail the stuff over. Text me some of the basic facts. I’ll handle it.”
“You’re the best. The most reliable person in the office!” Clarice makes a kissing noise into the phone. “I’ll send it all over right now.”
“Great. Thanks.”
I end up heading back out to the reception area. My frame lounges in a chair until Clarice e-mails me all the relevant info. I read up for a few minutes, highlight some key points in my phone, then, with a grim look on my face, walk over to the guard handling the reception area.
“I’m here to see Jordan Whitmore. I’m his attorney,” I blandly inform the man at the counter. He’s checked me in multiple times today. That makes me a known entity. He waves me through without a second thought.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
I’m escorted through the hallways until I’m permitted access to an empty room with a table and two chairs. A small, cramped place for lawyers to meet their clients. I think I’ve already been in this one today, but it’s hard to know sometimes. They all seem the same. I linger in the chair until the door opens. A guard escorts a young man in before positioning him into the seat in front of me.
Jordan Whitmore. Twenty-two. Eight years younger than myself. A college dropout working construction. After three years of wasting time in higher education, he still has the debt to repay, so he doesn’t have the money to afford an attorney. Here enters me to offer him a service that can be summed up wholly as “free.”
“Good to meet you, Jordan.” I shake the man’s hand across from me. The guard leaves the two of us alone. “My name is Felix Cortez. I’ll be your attorney in this matter.”
Jordan fidgets his finger along the table. They tap onward to some unknown rhythm. “I’m gonna get out of here quickly, right? Jail is not my thing.”
“That depends on you,” I answer as I pull my iPad out of my legal briefcase. Though I read Jordan’s files on my phone, I personally feel it is unprofessional for a lawyer to do such in front of their client.
“All I did was hit the guy!” Jordan’s eyes are panicked. “I didn’t think defending someone else would put me in jail!”
“Is that what happened? You defended someone?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“It’s not my job to believe you,” I say. “My job is to zealously defend you in whatever legal action you deem fit after providing you with sound legal advice.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning you can tell me the truth or lie to me. Either result ends the same. But if you feel like talking, attorney-client confidentiality takes privilege.”
“I didn’t start the fight. I was defending someone else.”
“Tell me your version of the events.”
Jordan scratches the back of his head. “I was getting lunch between shifts. There was this guy and his buddies. They were harassing this girl. I stepped in and intervened. One thing led to another, and I shoved a guy to the ground pretty hard.”
“That would be Mr. Espinoza,” I say, reading a name from the file.
“No idea,” returns Jordan.
I flip my iPad around to show him the image of the victim.
“Yeah. That’s the bastard,” signals Jordan. “He should be in here, too.”
“Well, the ‘bastard’ is pressing charges against you for aggravated assault.”
“And I was defending someone else!”
“You were if your side of the story is true. If I were judge, jury, and executioner with no other evidence, I’d let you go. But this Mr. Espinoza has sworn affidavits from the two men with him and the woman they were arguing with that you started the confrontation.”
“Why would the bitch say that?!”
“She is Mr. Espinoza’s girlfriend.”
Jordan blinks.
“Yeaaaah,” I stress. “Not a good situation to be in. Rather unfair, really.”
“Then what should I do?”
“You have a few options. You can try taking this to court or plead guilty.”
“What do you suggest then?” Jordan demands. He seems even more nervous now than when he walked in.
“If you plead guilty, you’ll have to pay a fine. You’ll also have an assault charge on your record, and it could hinder future employment opportunities. In this case, it is a misdemeanor since no one was seriously injured. There’s a chance you can have it wiped off your record eventually.”
“And if I go to court?”
“It’ll take a few months. We can get you bail, so you won’t have to remain in jail the entire time. The one witness you’d want on your side is the girlfriend. However, her testimony might not be positive. I can press her on the argument route, but that’ll backfire in front of a jury if she can downplay it. It’s a rough situation.”
“So what, I plead guilty for misinterpreting a situation?”
“Unfortunately, yes. That’s probably the best course of action,” I respond with some unease.
“Bullshit,” cusses Jordan. He slouches in his chair.
“That it is,” I nod in agreement. “but it’s not up to me to decide what to do. It’s up to you. I’ll do whatever you desire. It’s your choice in the end.”
Jordan sits in silence for a moment.
Annnnd….
“Fine. I’ll plead guilty. Screw it,” expectorates Jordan. “I hate the sound of that.”
I frown. “I will notify the opposing counsel. I’ve got a guy that will help you post bail in the meantime. It may take a few hours, but you’ll be released soon. There will be another court date in the future to accept the charges. I’ll be there with you that day, so no worries. Any questions?”
“None,” laments Jordan.
I stand. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more help.”
“You probably did the best you could,” Jordan utters. “My fault. I shouldn’t try to help people anymore.”
“What a terrible life lesson,” I jest.
“It’s true. Screw that. I see a lady I think is being harassed. Next time, I’m leaving her ass. This has been a nuisance. Fucked my whole week up.”
“We‘ll get this settled. Don’t worry about it,” I reassure him.
I knock on the door. The guard comes back into the room. He leads Jordan out. I follow after. We all part ways at a crossroads in the hallway. Jordan heads back into the jail. Meanwhile, I ring up the bail bondsman I know. He’s got a few clients I want him to handle before the day ends.
Exiting the jail, a gentle breeze hits me. The heat of the prison irritates my skin, but the coolness of the New York air calms me in seconds.
Then it becomes too much.
“Cold,” I complain. “Of course it is. It always is.”
•
“Sounds like a rough day,” Scott reassures me.
“A full damn day at that shitty jail!” I shout. My cheeks are flushed red with drink. I’m on my fifth beer, I think. “God, this job is boring as hell sometimes.”
Scott hoists his glass. “Understatement.”
We clink our mugs together before emptying them.
“Jordan was panicked, but his case is straightforward. He’ll go back to work tomorrow,” I resume my story.
“Well damn, I had a long day too.” Scott places his mug down on the table. It clanks against the slicked wood. Nineties rock music hums gently in the background.
“Do tell.”
“Don’t be an ass.” Scott waves me off. “Wasted the whole day at a trial. I begged the asshole not to be a witness, but he stood his ground and went through with it today. This motherfucker accidentally confessed.”
I bury my face into my hands. “No he didn’t.”
“I wish he didn’t!”
“Dumb bitch,” I mutter, chuckling. “Is that your only case going to trial?
“Yes, thank God.” Scott strokes the outside of his glass. “That’s the only benefit of being a public defender. Most of our clients definitely broke the law. No point going to court, so we end up doing mostly paperwork.”
“The downside is when we do go to trial, we’re fucked for funding,” I grieve. “Bet it’s nice to be a part of those big firms that are loaded out the ass with cash.”
“You could always quit and work for them,” Scott redirects my tirade. “That’s what most people do. Get a few months or a year of experience doing this crappy job. Then corporations gobble them up thanks to the experience. You’ll make a lot more money. The stress’d be more manageable. Jump ship whenever you want. I won’t blame you. No one will.”
“Yeah, I could. I dunno. There’s something about this job that’s kind of fulfilling, even if only a little.”
A ringing phone interrupts our fun.
Scott pulls out his phone. “The wife,” he tells me upon reading the screen and swiping it open. “Hey, baby! How are you doing?”
There’s a pause.
“I’m out with Felix. I told you that. Sent you a text,” Scott says evenly.
Poor Scott. He has a wife calling him while he’s having a good time.
I’m kidding, of course.
He’s a lucky bastard.
Truth be told, I kind of envy him. The only person I have in my life is my mom back in Ohio. Our relationship has always been kind of testy. Dad died when I was a kid, so I don’t remember much of him. Mom was forced to work long hours to provide for herself and me. She didn’t have time to date, nor did I think she wanted to while I was staying at home. While I appreciate her sacrifice, and I know it was one, she was never a significant factor in my life outside of providing me with things.
When I began dating my most recent ex Miya, I’d go home and see her parents a lot. It was kind of a culture shock. I’d never seen a mom and dad together for a prolonged amount of time. Even at a minimum, I realized it was odd to see a parent at any time other than night.
Miya…
Ah shit, I’m gonna loop back into a depression.
Promptly, I commence drinking my refilled beer, hoping it will ward off my recollections.
It doesn’t.
Even five years later, I’m still bummed. I never rebounded. I dug my head in, focused on work, and time seemed to slip away. The next thing I knew, I was the only single person out of any of my friends. They all had wives, and many were having kids.
I started getting left behind.
Then I threw myself even more into my work. I still do. It’s all I have.
I’ve lessened all attachments to others. Yeah, I’ll get a text every now and again from someone I used to know, but I follow up meekly until there’s nothing left to say. A vicious cycle, I recognize that, but it’s easier this way. Every day I wake up, work, and go to sleep. Do that enough, and time slips away from you.
Yes, I have regrets. Who doesn’t? But, in general, I don’t even know what I desire in life.
I want to help people.
Sometimes I feel like I am. Others, I’m not sure I ever have.
“Clearly, I drank too much,” I mutter to myself.
“Yes, I’ll head home in a bit. Let me finish this round, okay?” Scott coos sweetly into his phone.
If I was ever truly passionate about any activity, I guess it’d be fighting. I got into it in middle school then started learning other disciplines. My peers had sports as their extracurriculars. Me? I liked to fight. It felt like solving puzzles but with physical stakes. It started with Taekwondo. Then I learned Jujitsu. Rounded out my style with a little kickboxing. Being ambidextrous made me better than most. Like I was born to do it.
Once I learned one style of fighting, the others came easily. I doubt there’s a situation I couldn’t get out of in terms of physical contact unless the other person had a gun.
I’m sure a psychologist would latch onto this info immediately. No father in the home. A desire to fight. Was I lashing out against the paternal person who wasn’t there or was I fighting the world?
Truth be told, I haven’t kept up with any of it in a few years. Four now? I’m getting sluggish. I practice a little at home, but I don’t roll anymore. Haven’t been to a class in God knows how long. It’s all engrained in my mind, but I’m not what I used to be.
Other than fighting, I studied. Didn’t care for many other physical activities. I was an excellent student and in perfect fighting shape. Nothing was hard except my family life.
Then I got into law school, an enterprise pushed by my mother because she believed it would bring me a lot of money and happiness.
Now I’m in New York City making roughly double minimum wage doing the unsung labors of hell. And all because Miya suggested it. I was complaining about how lawyers, even law students, seemed kind of heartless. That’s when she brought up public defenders since she perceived them as people sticking up for the underdogs.
We both ended up doing that line of work for a while until she got picked up by a more prominent, high-paying firm. Our relationship fractured. It’s been a few years since I last saw her, but it’s safe to say she’s had a consequential impact on my life.
Hell, when I think of this job in general, she’ll always be connected to it.
“Maybe I should quit just for that reason,” I reflect unrealistically. It’s all just venting on my end. My words and thoughts ultimately won’t affect my life.
“Hey, Felix.” Scott slams his now-empty mug down on the counter. “Listen, man, I‘ve got to go. The wife—”
“Say no more.” I raise my hands, urging him to stop. “It’s all good. I’m about to head out in a minute too. Don’t worry about it.”
“Alright.” Scott cashes out at the bar. “See you Monday.”
“See ya.” I signal to him as he passes around my back. The door to the bar opens as Scott exits for the night.
I gaze into my half-filled mug of beer. My reflection gawks back at me in the piss-colored liquid.
Why do I look so...dull?
“When did I become so boring?” I groan, slapping my head into the counter.
There’s giggling.
I look around the bar to see a group of women at a booth nearby. One occasionally looks in my direction. When she turns away, the group giggles.
My brow raises slightly.
I’m not ugly, so I understand this type of thing occasionally happens. I’m kind of tall. My family is originally from South America, so I’ve got a permanent tan, as the kids in elementary school used to say. It’s easy to grow a beard. I’ve had one since my senior year of high school. Plus, I went through a hippie phase some years ago. My hair is really long and dark. I keep it tied into a bun most days. Pair that with the exercise I do, and I’m at least a six or a seven if I am humble with myself. More so a six, I guess.
Ultimately, I don’t fret about the strange girl staring at me from a distance.
Sure, it’s nice to be looked at in such a way, and I could probably act upon it if I wanted. But I don’t. For some reason, I can’t get myself to care. I’m thirty, single, with no children, and I have nearly zero desire to be in a relationship again.
How depressing.
“Another round!” I sit up swiftly, patting my mug gently against the bar. “Please?”