Overruled (The Legal Briefs 1)

take off—gotta catch my train.”

I stand up and smack his arm. “Hey, why don’t you stay in DC tonight? I’ll set up a poker game with the boys—it’ll be like old times.”

He lifts his hands, weighing the options. “Let’s see . . . take Shaw’s money . . . or go home to the stunning wife who’s been sexting me all afternoon? No contest. I like you, man, but I’ll never like you that much.”

We hug briefly, slapping each other’s back, both pledging to do this again soon.

That’s when my cell phone chimes. I pick it up from the table, read the message, and curse.

As Drew retrieves his briefcase from under the table, I hold my phone out.

“Jury’s back.”

He laughs at me. “For your sake, I hope she’s as good with a stick as she claims.” He pauses, then grins. “But I guess you already know she is.”

With a final smack to my arm, he heads toward the door. “Later, man.”

“Give Kate my best,” I call after him. “And my card!”

He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t break his stride, but just raises his hand, with his middle finger extended loud and clear above his head.

4

Sofia

There’s an energy in a courtroom just before a verdict is read, a static that crackles in the air. It’s a shared, breathless tension, the same the Romans must’ve felt at the Colosseum as they waited to see what direction Caesar would point his thumb. Your pulse pounds, your blood hums, and the adrenaline surges. It’s exciting.

As addictive as really fantastic sex. The kind that leaves you marked, sore, and exhausted—and you can’t wait to do all over again.

I always knew I wanted to be an attorney. As I was growing up, I watched shows like L.A. Law, where female litigators possessed rapier wits, wore stylish suits with impeccable hairstyles, and worked in glass and chrome offices in the sky.

Education was the highest priority for my parents, because they had had such limited access to it themselves. My mother left the poverty of her home village in Pará for the relative opulence of Rio de Janeiro when she was a young girl. But she escaped illiteracy only after meeting my father, who taught her to read when she was sixteen years old. Together, they emigrated to the United States and became the very definition of the American Dream—building a thriving business, rising through the ranks of the middle class to prosperous wealth. Keenly aware of the opportunities their hard work afforded their children, they impressed upon each of us—myself and three older brothers—that education was the key to unlocking all doors. It was a treasure that could never be stolen, the most durable safety net. It’s no accident that we each went on to pursue professional fields: my eldest brother, Victor, became a doctor; the next, Lucas, a CPA, and Tomás, just a year older than me, an engineer.

“Madam Forewoman, have you reached your verdict?”

Our client Pierce Montgomery’s simmering attention is blatantly not on the woman who’s about to announce his judgment, but instead trained squarely on my chest. It makes me feel dirty in an unenjoyable way.

There’s a nice hot shower in my future—to rinse off the sleaze.

“We have, Your Honor.”

Going in to criminal defense, I knew the high probability of having to work with scumbags like Montgomery, but that didn’t deter me. Because I was the youngest in my family, and the only daughter, they were highly protective. But instead of restricting me, that protective instinct drove my parents to make sure I was capable and prepared for whatever life may throw at me.

Opportunities, my father would say, have to be seized with both hands, because you never know if they’ll come again.

He’s the one who taught me to be fearless.

Opportunity is all he’s ever wanted for me. More than a husband or children, he wanted me to have the chance to go anywhere. Do anything.

Being raised in Chicago gave me an edge. It’s a beautiful city, but like all urban areas, it has its dangers. I learned early to move fast but stand my ground, to be on guard and generally distrust unfamiliar people until they prove otherwise.

In short, a leering, skeevy son of a senator like Pierce Montgomery doesn’t intimidate me. If he ever tried to touch me with more than his eyes, I could bring him to his knees with the turn of my wrist.

Simple as that.

“What say you?”

Here we go. Moment of truth.

From the corner of my eye I see Stanton’s broad shoulders rise ever so slightly as he inhales . . . and holds his breath.

Just like I do.

The forewoman rattles off the case number and the charges, and then she utters the magic words: “Not guilty.”

Hell to the yes! Whoot fucking whoot! Let the mental fist pumping commence!

Much like with touchdown-scoring NFL players, excessive celebration in the courtroom is frowned upon, so Stanton and I restrain ourselves to glowing, congratulatory smiles. But both of us know this is huge, a win that’s a stepping stone to the kind of notoriety enjoyed by Cochran, Allred, Geragos, Abramson, and Dershowitz—the League of Everybody Knows Your Name.

Montgomery thanks Stanton with a handshake, yet manages to make even his gratitude sound supercilious. He turns to me with open arms—expecting a hug of course.

Because I have a vagina.

And like so many, he functions under the belief that penises shake hands, vaginas hug.

Not this one, buddy.

I extend an unyielding arm, which makes my point and keeps him out of my personal space. He settles for the handshake, but adds a leering wink.

And the hot shower beckons louder.

When we step outside the courthouse, reporters are waiting. Local, not national. Not yet. Like I said, stepping stone.

Stanton, being first chair, fields the questions with a well-practiced mixture of charm and egotism—lawyers don’t do modest. But he gives me my due, referring to “our” defense, mentioning how “we” were confident of the outcome from the very beginning, highlighting our firm like a good little soldier, and stressing that every client of Adams & Williamson would receive equally stellar representation.

While he speaks, I take a moment to admire him—because he’s so easy to admire. His jade eyes glitter with excitement and afternoon sun, framed by dense, surprisingly dark lashes that women would kill to have. A few rebel strands of thick, golden hair—Robert Redford, Legal Eagles kind of hair—fall over his intelligent brow. A Roman nose and high cheekbones give him a strong, noble look, but Stanton Shaw’s all man—not a hint of pretty boy here. I think my favorite part is his jaw. It’s porn worthy. Rugged and square with the perfect amount of scratchy, blond stubble to conjure images of sexy late mornings and warm beds.

He stands at six foot two—just four inches taller than I am—and his long legs and broad torso are a tailor’s dream. It’s the kind of body that was made to wear a suit. His voice is deep, a melodic baritone with the barest hint of southern lilt that during cross-examination can slash like a scalpel or mesmerize with the comfort of a bedtime storyteller. But it’s his smile that draws you in, that disarms. Expert lips that make you want to laugh when they do or provoke the dirtiest of thoughts when they slide into that lazy, lopsided smirk.

The smirk and I are well acquainted.

“. . . isn’t that right, Ms. Santos?” he asks, and the reporters’ gazes fall to me expectantly.

Shit. I have no idea what he’s asking. I was too busy staring at the jawline—damn you, jaw—remembering how its bristles scraped my inner thigh, making me purr with the satisfaction of a feline enjoying her favorite scratching post.

But I recover smoothly. “Absolutely. I couldn’t agree more.”

The reporters thank us, and while our client climbs into his chauffeured car, Stanton and I decide to walk the few blocks back to the office.

“Where’d you go back there? You zoned out,” he says with a ring of amusement that tells me he’s already guessed.

?

??I’ll give you detailed instructions later on,” I reply as Stanton opens the door to our building for me.

Abrams & Williamson is one of the oldest law firms in DC. The building itself is only ten stories, adhering to the Height of Buildings Act of 1910, which prohibited construction of any new structures that would be taller than the Capitol dome, save for a few limited exceptions. But what the building lacks in stature it makes up for in historical grandeur. Polished mahogany gleams beneath overhead lighting, designed to highlight the handcrafted moldings that decorate every wall. A restored marble fireplace welcomes visitors with its perpetual light as they walk to the huge walnut receptionist’s desk.

The longtime receptionist, Vivian, is in her fifties, her flawless white suit and blond updo providing the perfect first impression of experienced elegance to all who enter.

She smiles warmly. “Congratulations to you both. Mr. Adams would like to see you in his office.”

News travels fast in DC, making high school gossip grapevines look as slow as dial-up Internet. So it’s no surprise that word of our win has already reached our boss’s desk. However, impressive win or not, Jonas Adams, founding partner of our firm and direct descendant of our second president, would never descend from his top-floor perch to offer congratulations.

He summons us to him.

On the elevator ride up, the same eager excitement bubbling inside me emanates from my colleague in crime. We’re immediately ushered into Jonas’s office, where he stands behind his desk, speedily sliding folders into a worn leather briefcase. His resemblance to his founding father ancestor is nothing short of uncanny—a bulging midsection accessorized by the gold chain of an antique pocket watch, round spectacles balanced on a pointy nose, and white tufts of hair combed over in an attempt to cover the bald crown of his head, which is as shiny as the hardwood floors we’re standing on.

If he ever retires, historical reenactment companies will be tearing each other to pieces to have him.

Jonas has lectured at the finest legal institutions and is considered one of the most brilliant minds in our field. But like many gifted intellectuals, he exhibits a busy, scatterbrained temperament that makes you think he’s forever losing his car keys.

“Come in, come in,” he calls as he pats his pockets, relieved to discover the items he was obviously hoping were still there. “I’m leaving momentarily for a conference in Hawaii, but I wanted to congratulate you both on the Montgomery case.”

He shuffles out from behind his desk and shakes our hands. “Excellent work—not an easy win, that one. But Senator Montgomery is sure to be grateful.”