It's Never too Late

“Fine. Busy.”

“I looked at your website. You’re managing on your own without joining a firm, which is impressive. I knew you were doing educational law, but you’ve got a long list of wins. You’ve only been out of law school, what, six years?”

Seven. And she only took cases she believed in—something she could do being her own boss. Right was right and wrong was wrong and she of all people couldn’t afford to blur the line.

With only herself to support, she could be picky.

“Don’t let the list mislead you. I eat dried noodles for dinner more often than most of the folks in my profession,” she joked. And spoke the truth, too.

She couldn’t even afford a secretary.

“I have a favor to ask, Addy.”

Leaning her head back against the couch, she relaxed. “I’ll do anything I can for you, Will, you know that. What’s up?”

“This is a big one.”

Bigger than welcoming a lost little girl into the family and taking time to make her feel as special and welcome as everyone else there? It had been a long time ago. They’d all moved on. Had completely separate lives. Didn’t really even keep in touch. But she’d never forgotten.

“I’ll do whatever I can.”

“How soon could you get away for an extended vacation?”

“I’m waiting on a verdict on a case involving a diabetic kid who was suspended for having needles out during class, and then I’m free. I quit taking new cases as soon as I saw that this was going to trial.”

She could only do so much on her own.

“What do you need? Research? Case law?”

It made perfect sense that Will, as president of a prominent university, might need some educational law advice.

“I need it all. We’re dealing with possible discrimination charges.”

“Does this have to do with Kaelin?” Will’s adopted Asian son. “Is someone giving him problems in school?” Hard to imagine in Shelter Valley. Not because the town didn’t have bigots, but because of Will’s and Becca’s standing in the community.

“It’s me, Addy.” His voice lowered. “I’ve received a couple of anonymous letters threatening to go public with proof that I’m allowing discriminatory practices at Montford.”

She sat up, fully focused.

“What kind of discriminatory practices?”

“It doesn’t say.”

“Is there more to go on?”

“Unfortunately not. No names, no classes or faculty names, no ethnicities or instances to follow up on. No hint whatsoever.”

“And no return address?”

“The letters were slid under my office door.”

“Surely you have a friend on the Shelter Valley police force who could find out who’s sending them.”

“Greg Richards, who’s been sheriff here for over a decade, is the only one who knows about the threats besides Becca and myself. I took the letters straight to Greg and he advised that until we know who’s behind this, we keep it to ourselves. If for no other reason than if this is just a sick attempt to make me sweat, Greg doesn’t want the perpetrator to know he’s succeeding. Greg is investigating, but there were no prints on the envelopes. It’s common paper. Common ink. And it’s not like we have a forensic lab here. Or like this is enough of an issue to warrant involving overworked forensic teams in Phoenix who are trying to convict known perpetrators of horrendous deeds.”

It could be enough of an issue if someone was setting up a plan to blackmail Will Parsons who, at fifty-three, was the Parsonses’ eldest son and an heir to the family fortune. But she was getting ahead of herself.

“One thing was pretty clear, whoever left the letters has an issue here at Montford that he believes I know about.”