Capital Punishment (2 page)

Johnson smiled, but a cold smile. "It is and it isn't," he said. "You charge less than the other attorneys."

That was news to me. I said so.

"No, everyone else is raising their rates, Mike," he explained. "You need to too."

I shrugged. It had been a while since I'd raised my hourly rate. I supposed we could do that. "Okay, I'll have Danielle modify my fee agreement. I've got a prospective client coming in this afternoon. Messy divorce. Kids, pets, boat. I'll start with him."

Johnson laughed, but a cold laugh. "No, Mike. Don't start with him. Raise your rates on all your clients. You have the most clients, that means you're costing us the most money with your low rates."

"But they have fee agreements," I protested too quickly. "I can't just raise my rates."

Johnson's smile and laugh—cold or not—were gone. "You don't care about the financial well being of this firm?" he accused.

I was staggered. "Of course I do. But I have contracts I need to honor. I agreed to do certain work at a certain rate. I can't just—"

"You can and you will," he interjected. "Raise your hourly rate by seventy five dollars. If they refuse to pay it, tell them we're done doing any more work for them. The last thing they'll want to do is go find another attorney, and if they do start looking most will charge that much or more. They'll pay it, Mitchell. Oh, they'll pay it."

I was disappointed in him. "That's not how your father would have—" I started but he cut me off.

"I'm not my father!" Johnson slammed the desk and stood up. He leaned over the large oaken table and jabbed a finger in my face. "I don't want to be my father! The days of my father running this business like a goddamn hobby are over. My kids aren't going to miss out on things they need just because their old man is too chicken shit to try and make a solid profit!"

I knew better than to say anything. I'm sure he already regretted blurting out as much as he had. I waited a moment for the blood to run out of his face and for his finger to drop a notch.

"Got it," I said. I couldn't bring myself to call him 'Mr. Johnson.' "If that's all..."

He regained himself a bit and stepped back. "Yes, yes, that's it." He picked up his figures and charts. "We can talk more after my lunch with Jason."

I forced a smile. "That'll be great," I said. Lunch with Jason. I swallowed my pride and added, "Mr. Johnson."

I walked back to my office to find Jason looking out my window.

"Nice view," he said when I came in. "Just admiring it."

"Don't start measuring the drapes yet, Fletcher," I growled.

"You're not gonna have this office forever," he shot back. "Things are gonna be changing around here."

"Yeah, I just got the memo," I said. "Now if you'd kindly leave, I guess I need to start calling some of my clients."

Before he could protest, Danielle walked in again. She leaned forward and placed some papers on my desk. Her boobs practically landed on top of them. "These were just filed on the Cunningham matter."

I managed to only look at her tits for a second before looking at the pleadings. It took all I could do not to look at her ass when she left.

Fletcher didn't even try not to look. He even whistled quietly as she stepped out.

"Damn, Mr. Mitchell. You've got one hot secretary."

"She's a good secretary," is all I replied as I scanned the motion to dismiss that Danielle had brought me.

"So, how do you think she'd look," Fletcher asked, "with my dick in her mouth?"

I dropped the motion. "Okay, that's uncalled for."

Fletcher put up his hands, but his smarmy smile remained. "Whoa, whoa. Sorry, sir. I thought you were done with her."

I narrowed my eyes at him. I thought that rumor had been put to bed. "I never started with her."

"That's not what I heard," Fletcher snickered. "Not that I blame you. Is she a screamer? She looks like she might be a screamer."

I'd had it. "You'll never find out, Fletcher."

"Why not?"

"'Cause when you started here, she asked about you," I lied. "But I told her you had a thumb dick and herpes."

Fletcher's eyes flared. "You did what?"

I shrugged. "She said she didn't care about the herpes so much, but she figured you might have a pin dick. She said it explained why you're always strutting around and talking so much."

"Go to hell, Mitchell!" Fletcher shook a finger at me, then turned toward the door.

"Don't tell on me to Mr. Johnson," I teased, "or I'll tell Danielle what you said, and she'll sue you and the firm for everything we've got."

He stopped at the doorway, his hands in fists. He stammered for a moment, then fell back again on, "Go to hell."

"Eloquent," I replied, picking up the pleadings in front of me. "Remind me not to let you argue this motion to dismiss."

Fletcher's face turned almost as red as his power tie and he stormed off.

I decided it was a good time to get going too. I didn't know what Fletcher would do or who he'd talk to, and I didn't really want to stick around to find out.

I grabbed the oldest file in my file cabinet and put it in my briefcase, then stepped into the hallway.

"Danielle," I stopped by her desk, "if anyone's looking for me tell them I'm going to meet Mrs. Ellison."

Danielle smiled at the mention of the old woman's name. "How is she doing nowadays?"

"Pretty much homebound anymore," I answered, "but she's managed to stay out of a retirement home. Says she'd rather die in her own house than live in one of those."

Danielle smiled, but didn't say any more. We were both at the age where that would soon be an issue for our parents as well.

Instead she asked, "So why are you going out there?"

I grimaced at the thought of what I had to do. I patted the case file. "I guess I need to talk to her about our fee schedule. She doesn't use a phone, so I have to do it in person." I considered how long she'd been my client and how shitty what I was going to do was. "It's probably better done in person anyway."

Danielle nodded. "You're probably right. I'll let Mr. Johnson know if he starts asking for you."

"Great." Then I remembered. "Oh, and if Fletcher starts asking questions, just tell him you and I have never talked about him."

She smiled. "We haven't, have we?"

"No, but he might think otherwise right now."

Her smile became suspicious. "I think you'd better get going before I figure out what's going on."

"Good idea," I answered, then headed for the elevator.

Mrs. Ellison lived in the same house she raised her eight kids in. Her husband had been dead for two decades, and the kids were scattered all over the country. I handled her financial matters and whatever little things came up. Disputes with the neighbors, transferring titles, dealing with the Social Security Administration.

The house was the same—down to the worn rugs covering every inch of the hardwood floors—but the neighborhood had changed. When she was raising the seven Ellison boys and one Ellison girl, it was a new suburban development, out at the edge of town, where everyone's backyard was an open field untouched by developers. Now it was just another poor neighborhood of the city. The real suburbs had been built outside of town, followed by the exurbs. What stores were left had bars in the windows and shotguns under the counters.

Gang graffiti was rampant. The neighborhood was Crip, but it was right next to Blood territory, so every now and again the Bloods would cross over and tag the hell out of the place, just to piss off their rivals. Fences and mailboxes and the sides of buildings were covered with alternating red and blue graffiti.

I drove past one exchange—"Fuck the Crabs" crossed out and replaced with "Kill the Slobs"—as I drove into the neighborhood. I barely noticed it, though, or the pack of five or so tough-looking young men adorned in blue bandanas, milling around outside the local stop-and-rob store. I was too worried about my meeting with Mrs. Ellison.

No, not worried. Pissed. And ashamed. I shouldn't have been doing it. I shouldn't have been raising rates on an elderly woman just because my new boss wanted even more money in the firm's coffers. The only reason I'd decided to make the trip was to give me an excuse to leave the office before Fletcher figured out a better comeback and tracked me down.

I saw the little dive bar I always drove past on the way to Mrs. Ellison. It was open already. I didn't drink much anymore, and never that early. But I needed a drink. Or at least a reason to put off doing something I knew I shouldn't do.

I pulled into the gravel parking lot and locked the rental car the insurance company had given me. I shook my head at the "64th Street Crips" sprayed on the side of the bar right over the "Parking for Ice Cave Tavern Only" sign. They hadn't even tried to clean it off.

Doesn't anyone care anymore? I wondered as I walked into the windowless bar.

It took my eyes a minute to adjust to the darkness, but there wasn't all that much to see anyway. A long bar running down the left side, some booths on the right side, and a pool table and dartboard in the back. A fat guy in a sweatshirt was sitting in the middle of the bar. I sat down near the door, two chairs in between us.

The bar top was sticky.

"Hello there," the bartender—a woman who probably wasn't as old as her lifestyle made her look—stepped out from the kitchen behind the bar. "What can I get ya?"

"Eh, just a beer thanks." It was too early for hard stuff. Honestly, it was too early for beer. "Whatever's on tap."

"Comin' right up."

I wasn't exactly sure why I had stopped, other than I was stalling against meeting with Mrs. Ellison. But it had already been a long day so I decided to use the time to try to clear my head a bit.

So of course, that's when Janie called my cell.

Even in divorce she could still nag me.

My ring tone was the first strains of the fourth movement of Beethoven's Seventh Symphony. Not that I was that into classical music. It just sounded really impressive when it went off while meeting with a new client or waiting outside court. Never understood why a grown professional would have the latest pop song as his ring.

Beethoven. Now that was dignified.

Except right then, right there, it made me feel like a pompous ass.

I scrambled it out of my pocket. I actually didn't know who it was until I said, "Hello?"

"Mike? It's Janie."

Crap.

"Did you get my message?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah," I started. "I just haven't had a chance to call you back. I've had a crazy day. First, I woke up late then—"

"That's great, Mike. I don't have a lot of time."

God, it was like we were still married.

"So what do you think?" she said.

I thought it sucked. "I guess. Sure. I mean, I was looking forward to seeing the boys this weekend. I even got tickets to—"

"No, Mike. The money. What do you think about the money?"

I could feel the acid start to spill into my stomach.

"Uh yeah, see," I started.