AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Her scowl deepens. “Then why did he tell the pre-trial officer that he wanted a lawyer to be assigned to him?”
I shrug. “I guess he changed his mind since meeting with the pre-trial officer. He also waived his right to remain silent.”
“Well, that was stupid,” she hisses.
I bark a laugh. “Darlin’, this is America. The man has the right to be stupid.”
She rolls her eyes. “Why is that the only right that men never seem to waive?”
I open my mouth, ready to continue the back-and-forth banter, but Cressida shoves past me toward the interview room.
“I’m the attorney of record now,” she says, shooting me one last glare as she opens the door. “I’d better not catch you talking to my client outside my presence again. And don’t call me darlin’.”
I chuckle. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Cressida.” And God help me, I mean it.
Chapter 2
Cressida
“I want pizza,” Petra says, jumping up and down in my living room. “You need to take a break from work, and I’m starving. Please, pretty, pretty, please?”
I look up at her from my spot on the floor where I’ve spread out the contents of a client’s file. “No,” I say firmly, shaking my head at my best friend. “You know how I feel about Mercury Slice on the first Friday of the month.”
Ever since Mikki, the owner, declared the first Friday of every month to be “Ladies’ Night,” it’s a bigger party than Mardi Gras. There are specials on the menu just for women, including half-price pizza and deep discounts on cocktails. So, the ladies show up for the specials—and the men show up for the ladies. It’s a madhouse.
“It’s cruel to deprive me of carbs in my time of need,” Petra insists. “Breakups are hard. You’d know that if you stopped working long enough to go on a date.”
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. She and her on-again/off-again boyfriend have broken up so many times that I’ve lost count. It’s hard to take her grief seriously when the chances are high that the two of them will be back together by the end of the week. It doesn’t help that I can’t stand Marcus, and I want nothing more in the world than for Petra to kick him to the curb for good.
“Wouldn’t you rather have burgers, fries, and milkshakes in your time of need?” I suggest hopefully.
“I need pizzaaaaaa,” she wails dramatically.
With a sigh, I gather up the papers on the floor. “Fine, but you’re the designated driver.”
“But—”
“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.” Whenever Petra and Marcus are taking a break from each other, my friend can’t drink alcohol without becoming a weepy mess. After the day I’ve had, I just can’t deal with tear-soaked pizza.
“Fine,” she grumbles, “but you’re buying me an order of breadsticks, Ms. Attorney at Law.”
“Deal,” I say with a smile.
I’m feeling pretty good about my skills as a negotiator until we get to the pizzeria. The parking lot is packed, reminding me of my vow to never set foot in Mercury Slice on Ladies’ Night. It occurs to me that I didn’t win the negotiation; Petra did. I was out-lawyered by a hairstylist.
People always say that my friend is a lot like her grandmother, Betty Lou McMillan, Mercury Ridge’s former mayor. If Petra had gone to business school instead of beauty school, she’d probably be running the country by now.
As I follow her into the pizzeria, I brace myself for the onslaught of noise. On top of the general cacophony of the crowd, there’s a live band doing a Maroon 5 cover on the stage. I wince as the lead singer tries to imitate Adam Levine’s falsetto. All the tables are full, and I turn to tell Petra that we have no choice but to go somewhere else. Her eyes are locked on a table in the center of the restaurant where a man is handing the server his credit card.
“There!” Petra says, grabbing my arm and dragging me to the table. We hover over the couple like a pair of buzzards circling their prey. The moment they stand up, we pounce onto the empty chairs. A busboy materializes a few seconds later to clear the table, followed by a server who asks for our drinks and appetizers order. I have to hand it to Mikki. She runs Mercury Slice like a well-oiled machine.
Before long, I’m sipping on a margarita and Petra’s dipping a breadstick in marinara. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to look at the screen. It’s an email from a prosecutor. I open it to read through the list of offers she’s made for several of my clients in exchange for their guilty pleas.
“Glad you could tear yourself away from your work for the night,” my friend complains.
“I’m sorry,” I say, stuffing the phone back into my pocket. “I just really want to be a good lawyer, Petra.”
She points her breadstick at me. “You are a good lawyer, Cress.” I appreciate her loyalty, but she has no idea how wrong she is.
