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Even though I was still running on the fumes of winning one of the biggest, yet non-reported cases in the state, I was still trying to find myself—personally and professionally. I was realizing that national popularity would always elude me, but as long as I was under-rated and not over-rated, I was perfectly fine with that.
I dropped a book of essays on my coffee table once I heard a loud knock at the door. It was a familiar loud and annoying one that my best friend Kevin always used.
“You know, you can’t keep coming over in the middle of the—” I stopped talking when I realized it wasn’t Kevin. It was a woman and a man, dressed in grey suits.
“Are you Liam Andrew Henderson?” The woman asked.
“Who’s asking?”
“Are you Liam Andrew Henderson?” The man spoke sternly.
“Depends on who wants to know.”
They both blinked.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m Liam Henderson.”
“You’ve been served.” The woman thrust a thick blue envelope into my hand, the tenth time this had happened to me this week.
“Is this some type of joke? Is the New York Times trying to get a rise out of me again?”
They exchanged glances, confused.
“I was just doing my job,” I said. “If they want to continue their pettiness by refusing to print my picture for the rest of their paper’s life, that’s fine. I’m okay with that, really. But serving me papers as a prank every day for a week and a half—”
“The SEC doesn’t do pranks,” the woman said, before they both walked away.
I shut my door and immediately called Kevin.
“This better be an emergency,” he answered. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Has our firm pissed anyone off lately?”
“Of course we have. Why?”
“I just got served papers by the SEC, again.”
“Have you actually opened any of the other ones?” he asked.
“Two of them,” I walked over to my coffee table and pulled out a drawer. “Something about a client named Ferguson who claims we haven’t been putting his money in escrow? He’s suing us for five million and supposedly contacting our other clients. Do we even have a client named Ferguson?”
“We have three clients named Ferguson.”
“Have we pissed any of them off?”
“Not to my knowledge.” He sounded concerned. “I’m pretty sure they would’ve contacted us first before filing the charges, don’t you think? Are you sure it’s not The New York Times playing a mean joke on you? This is like the tenth letter you’ve received.”
“That’s the first thing I asked tonight. They said it’s not them.”
We were both silent for several seconds.
“It’s them.” We laughed in unison.
“Sorry for calling at this hour.” I stuffed the envelope into the drawer with all the others. “I’ll talk to you later.” I hung up.
“Daddy?” Emma walked into the living room, wiping her eyes as she walked over to me. “Can I go play?”
“It’s three in the morning, Emma.” I shook my head. “What do you think?”
