When I first received communication from her, I googled her name.
Her website came up, and I was surprised to find that she’s an older attorney with short, iron-gray hair in a pixie cut. Her ice-blue eyes are cold, and the expression on her face said, “Don’t dare fuck with me.”
She looks like she could chew up anyone and spit them out without so much as breaking a sweat. She looks like just the type of attorney I would hire if I had legal woes.
She’s clearly a fucking bulldog and doesn’t know when to quit, and it’s pissing me off.
I pull up this most recent email.
Dear Mr. Dumelin,
In regard to your last communication wherein you asked me to leave you alone, I am sorry, sir, but I cannot do that. I am acting on your late brother’s behalf, and I have very important information that we must discuss. This is not something you can ignore. I am demanding that you take this seriously and reach out to me so we can schedule an appropriate time for you to come into my office and go over these issues.
If your schedule is such that you cannot come in, we can certainly do a telephone conference. However, there are documents for you to review and sign in front of a notary public, which will require your presence in my office at some point.
I would suggest you give your brother the respect he deserves and call as expeditiously as possible to make an appointment.
Sincerely,
Harlow Alston
My blood boils as I read back over the line where she tells me to give respect to my brother. Who in the fuck does she think she is? She doesn’t know me, and I know she sure as hell didn’t know my brother. Some high-powered lawyer he must’ve hired before he died to do something that needs my attention. More than likely some type of release to his estate so my parents can claim it all, which can most certainly be done via mail and without bothering me.
I read her email again, and I know she’s not going away.
My fury doesn’t abate but seems to burn brighter. I’m already burdened by so much fucking guilt that I’ve taken my brother’s place on this team, I don’t need some high-and-mighty bitch telling me I owe my brother respect. Does she think I don’t understand that?
She could never know that our estrangement before his death has caused me to question every motive I’ve ever had in ignoring a repair to our relationship. I don’t need any extra burden added to my plate.
Grocery store be damned… I’m going to handle this right now, so I don’t have to hear from this woman ever again. I copy and paste the address at the bottom of her email, put it into Google Maps, and when I get to my car, I set out for her office, intent on not only putting her in her place but putting my brother’s ghost far behind me.
Once I get her off my back, I can be done with Brooks Dumelin.
?
Based on outward appearances, Harlow Alston’s law firm is not what I expected. It’s in the Allegheny West neighborhood in a Victorian row house on a tree-lined street. When I googled her, her picture was in a sleek chrome-and-glass office overlooking the city. Perhaps she’s moved, but the hardened-looking older woman I saw on Google didn’t look like her office would be so cute or informal.
I easily find side alley parking, zipping my coat when I get out of my car. The wind is bone chilling. Although spring is just around the corner, it sure as shit doesn’t feel like it today. In fact, the skies are gray with darker clouds brewing. I should check the weather to see if we’re getting rain or snow.
A brass plaque hangs on the black exterior door to the rose-colored brick Victorian that serves as Ms. Alston’s office. It bears her name only, and as I enter, I find myself in a small foyer with a staircase leading up but with a velvet rope cordoning it off.
To the left is another black wooden door, and I assume that must be the law office.
Without hesitation, I enter and take a quick sweep of my surroundings. Clearly a lobby as noted by the traditional-looking furniture as well as an antique desk with a woman sitting behind it.
A door to the left is closed, and a brass nameplate on the wall beside it reads Harlow Alston, Esquire.
To the right is another closed door, also with a brass plate affixed that says Restroom. To the left of that is a short hallway that leads to the back of the first floor, but it’s darkened by shadows and presumably unused.
I’m relieved to see no other people in here because I’m so mad at this attorney for refusing to leave me alone and then threatening me, I’m pretty sure I’m not going to keep my temper under control. From a PR standpoint, I’m sure the Titans’ organization doesn’t want me running about being a dick in public.