Sustained

They treated me like a common criminal! It was humiliating.”

Milton Cooper Carrington Bradley. Heir to a renowned international luxury hotel empire . . . and a perpetual client of mine. Chronological age? Twenty. Mental age? Four.

“Stupid peasants didn’t know who they were dealing with! I told them I’d have their jobs.”

Yes—his name is actually Milton Bradley. Obviously his parents are dipshits.

“Especially the head stewardess—she was a rude bitch. You play racquetball with the president of that airline, don’t you, Dad? I want her gone.”

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.

My lips slide into a half grin that feels cold on my face.

“Of course we’re going to win. You took medication before the flight for anxiety. That’s our angle. A bad reaction to the pills, which explains your offensive behavior. A sworn statement from the prescribing physician should be sufficient.”

It’s almost too easy.

I point my finger at him. “But for the next six weeks, you need to stay home. Keep your name out of the papers and off of TMZ. Don’t drive, don’t go out to the clubs, don’t fart in a public place. You understand?”

Malcolm grins and places his hand on his son’s shoulder. “We do.” The three of us stand. “As always, thank you, Jake. We’re lucky to have you on our side.”

“I’ll be in touch.” And with a handshake, they’re gone.

• • •

Two hours later I’m sliding into my suit jacket, ready to head out to lunch. I automatically straighten my tie, adjust my collar—to ensure the scattering of tattoos that begins at my collarbone, wraps around my right shoulder, and trails down to the end of my wrist is covered. It’s a bitch in the summer, but the presence of ink tends to make my upper-crust clients uncomfortable, and it’s never well received by judges.

My secretary, Mrs. Higgens, walks into my office. Mrs. Higgens is the classic little old lady, right down to the pearl necklace and spectacles—the kind you’d expect to be sitting in a rocking chair crocheting blankets for dozens of grandkids. She’s terrific at her job. I’ve been accurately called a coldhearted bastard on a number of occasions, but I’m not sure if even I could muster the level of callousness that would be needed to fire her.

“There’s a young lady here to see you, Jake. She doesn’t have an appointment.”

I fucking hate walk-ins. They’re unexpected and unpredictable. They screw up my schedule, and my schedule is sacred.

“I’m on my way out.”

Mrs. Higgens looks at me sideways and drops an unsubtle hint. “She’s very pretty.”

I glance at my watch. “Fine. But tell her she’s got five minutes and five minutes only.”

I sit back down and a few moments later a petite, dark-haired woman enters my office. I’d say she’s in her late twenties, attractive, with a banging little body under those beige slacks and that prim yellow cardigan. But her shifty eyes and jittery movements dampen the appeal.

Looks matter, but confidence is by far the most alluring accessory a woman can wear.

Mrs. Higgens closes the door as she exits, and the brunette walk-in stands in front of my desk.

“Hi,” she says, glancing ever so briefly at my face before staring back at the floor, pushing her hair back behind her ears.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

That gets her looking up. “You don’t remember me, do you?” she asks, hands twisted together.

I study her face, more carefully this time. She’s neither remarkably beautiful nor outstandingly fugly. Just kind of . . . generic. Forgettable.

“Should I?”

Her shoulders hunch as she covers her eyes, muttering, “Jeez, I thought this was going to be hard enough . . .” She sinks down into one of the chairs across from my desk, perched on the edge—ready to run. After a beat, she adds, “We met last month at the Angry Inch Saloon? I was wearing a red dress?”

Nope, doesn’t ring any bells. I’ve met lots of women at that bar and when available, I go for blondes. They’re not more fun . . . just hotter.

She brushes her dark bangs to the side and tries again. “I asked you to buy me a drink, and you did. A cosmopolitan.”

Still nothing.

“We went back to your place after I told you about walking in on my boyfriend having sex with my best friend?”

I’m drawing a blank.

“While he was wearing my favorite pink nightie?”

And we have a winner. Now I remember. Made me think of Marv Albert, the sportscaster with a penchant for women’s lingerie—and assault and battery. And yet, he’s still on TV.

Only in America.

“Yes. I remember now . . .” I squint, working on the name.

“Lainey.”

“Lainey.” My fingers snap. “Right. What can I do for you?” I glance at my watch—two minutes left and I’m out the door.

She’s back to nervous and jerky. “Okay, there’s no easy way to say this . . . so I’m just going to say it.”

Sounds like a solid plan.

She takes a big breath and rushes out, “He didn’t just take my best friend and my best lingerie . . . he left something behind, too.”

How poetic.

“Syphilis.”

• • •

That sound you just heard? That’s me thinking, What the fuck did she just say? I actually stick my finger in my ear, to clear out the water that’s obviously clogged in there from my morning shower, distorting the hell out of my hearing.

But then she speaks again. And it sounds exactly the same.

“Yeah, syphilis.”

My stomach seizes, and there’s a really good chance I’m about to lose my breakfast.

“I got my test results back a few days ago. The people at the clinic said I needed to contact everyone I’ve had sex with since him. And that’s only you. I remembered your name and you said you were a lawyer here in DC.” She flaps her hands. “So . . . here I am.”

She might want to move a little bit to the right. I’m definitely going to blow chunks.

She breathes easier now, looking relieved that she got it all out. How goddamn nice for her.

“Do you have any questions, Jake? Anything you want to say?”

Motherfucking hell, I should’ve just gone to lunch.