Appealed (The Legal Briefs 3)

“What the fuck did you do?” Stanton growls.

The guy’s eyes bulge “Me? She almost broke my goddamn arm!”

Stanton pulls him a few inches from the wall and slams him back against it. “What’d you do that made her almost break your arm?”

“I told him he was going to have to do jail time.” Sofia pushes her long, dark hair back, fanning her sweaty neck. “That there wasn’t a deal I could make that wouldn’t include two to four years, minimum. He didn’t appreciate that, and took a swing at me.”

“You took a fucking swing at my wife?” Stanton’s fingers clench around the guy’s windpipe. “My pregnant wife!”

Sofia becomes the voice of reason. “I’m okay, Stanton. Really. Please just get him out of here.” Then she gives the piece of shit a look that may kill him faster than Stanton’s grip. “I’m dropping your case and keeping your retainer. Whatever lawyer you end up with won’t be good enough to get you even two to four, so have fun with that, asshole. Get out.”

“Let me help you,” Jake says, low and dangerous. Then he takes the bastard off Stanton’s hands—literally—and drags him out the door.

Stanton’s hands run over Sofia’s stomach, her shoulders. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Totally fine. He didn’t even touch me.”

Stanton nods and hugs her. But by the time Jake is back in the room, he’s all fired up again. “This is it, Soph—you’re done.” His hand cuts through the air, his stubborn jaw like a block of granite.

“Don’t start that again,” Sofia shoots back.

You might want to grab some popcorn. Because a good lawyer could argue with himself. Two attorneys going head to head is like a verbal MMA cage match with no rules.

“I’m finishin’ it, Sofia. Maternity leave starts now.” Stanton folds his arms—never a good sign.

“No, it doesn’t, Stanton. I’m not going to feed into your ‘barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen’ fantasy!”

Stanton leans forward. “You’re more than welcome to wear shoes. I’m partial to heels.”

Yeah, that’s gonna go over real well.

Then Stanton—displaying none of his trademark charm—loses it. “You’re my wife, this is our son! I’m not gonna stand by and let either of you get hurt—so you’re done with the violent assholes and drug addicts. You want to sit behind your desk, put your feet up with a nice tax evader or money launderer, be my fucking guest!”

“That’s not a decision you get to make!”

“I just did!”

Under my breath, I tell Jake, “I hate it when Mom and Dad fight.”

He cracks a smile.

Sofia glares smugly at her husband. “Then it’s a good thing this is an equal partnership, and we make those kinds of firm decisions together.”

Stanton nods, unconcerned. “Good point. We should vote on it—since it is a firm decision.”

Sofia’s smug smile falters.

“Jake?” Stanton asks, gaze focused on his wife.

There’s a pause for just one beat, and Jake says, “I agree with Stanton.”

Sofia’s face tightens, but before she can argue, he goes on. “Soldiers, firefighters, policewomen all go on restricted duty when they’re pregnant.”

“But I’m not any of those things!” She throws up her hands. “I don’t have to carry people out of burning buildings or avoid mortar fire, goddamn it!”

Jake’s voice is firm as steel. “Still not worth the risk of some asshole lashing out at you. And it’s got nothing to do with you being a chick—if Stanton was the incubator, I’d say the exact same fucking thing to him. Thank God that’s not the case.”

Stanton’s self-satisfaction fills the air and echoes in his voice. “Brent? What’s your vote?”

Sofia’s hazel eyes turn to me pleadingly.

I look her right in the face. “You’re one of my best friends, so I can tell you that I think you’re being an idiot.”

“But—”

I hold up my hand. “It’s a few weeks of limited clients—not the end of the world. And it’ll give all of us peace of mind.”

Then I channel my inner-Waldo.

“You don’t have to prove anything to us, Sofia—though maybe you feel like you have to prove something to yourself. But it’s not worth your health. Or the health of little Becker Mason Santos Shaw.”

Stanton chuckles. “Thank you.”

“Not so fast—I’m not finished.” I take a breath. “Although I see your point, Sofia’s a grown woman, not a child. I’m not going to take the decision away from her. So my vote is to do whatever Sofia wants to do.”

Stanton grinds his teeth. “Are you shittin’ me?”

“Nope.”

Sofia folds her arms victoriously. “Thank you, Brent.”

But Stanton’s not done. Because even though we’re the same age, the three of them have always looked at me like a kid brother or something. Like I need to be taught or lectured. I don’t know where the fuck that comes from—I mean, there must be a ton of grown men who have a whole shelf in their office just for comic books.

Right?

Stanton gets that Big Daddy look on his face and tells me, “One of these days you’re gonna care about someone more than you care about yourself. And then you’ll know what this feels like—and why you just voted wrong.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, but my vote still stands.” I check my watch. “And now I have to go get my ass handed to me in court.”

As I turn and walk out the door, I hear Stanton threatening to call Sofia’s mother.

Sofia’s a badass, but she’s also a bit of a drama queen.

“You bring my mother into this, I’ll never forgive you!”

And I can hear the wink in her husband’s voice. “Forever’s a long time, darlin’. I’ll take my chances.”

• • •

A couple of hours later, Kennedy has one of Justin Longhorn’s victims on the stand. She wrapped up the more technical part of her case yesterday, and while Sofia gave a strong cross-examination, damage was done.

But not nearly as much as the damage that’s occurring right now.

Because Kennedy—looking as delicious as a vanilla cupcake in her form-fitting cream suit—is questioning Eloise Potter. A tiny, gray-haired, soft-voiced, totally fucking adorable little old lady.

She looks like my Gram-Gram. She looks like everyone’s Gram-Gram.

By the time Kennedy’s done walking her through how she painstakingly pinched pennies all her life, to plan for her and Mr. Potter’s retirement—after she tearfully recounts the devastation and fear of seeing that life savings literally disappear—the jury is looking at my client like he’s the long-lost Menendez brother. They’re the monsters who blew both their parents away with shotguns just to get their hands on their inheritance, in case you weren’t sure.

So, yeah—not good.

“That’s all for now, Your Honor,” Kennedy tells the judge.

She smiles deviously right at me as she walks back to her seat behind the prosecution table. And when I inhale, that sweet, fruity scent gives me an instant semi.

Fucking great. Now I have to cross-examine Mrs. Clause at half-mast.

I take a deep breath and stand up, buttoning my suit. Then I smile warmly. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Potter, I’m Brent Mason.”

She nods and smiles. “Hello, young man.”

I step out from behind the table. “Mrs. Potter, did the detectives investigating this case tell you that your funds had been recovered?”

“Yes, they did, thank goodness. Harold and I were so relieved.”

“I’m sure you were. And they also explained that your money would be returned to you?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

I gesture to Justin, sitting meekly but attentive, in his schoolboy blue blazer and tan slacks, hands folded docilely on the table. “How do you feel about my client, Mrs. Potter? Knowing he’s just seventeen years old? Do you feel he should go

to jail, that the rest of his life should be ruined because of one alleged adolescent mistake?”

Kennedy jumps to her feet—like I knew she would. “Objection! The witness’s feelings about the defendant have no bearing on the facts of the case.”

But this time, I’m ready for her.

“Ms. Randolph opened the door to the witness’s feelings when she asked about them in relation to Mrs. Potter’s discovery of the funds missing from her account, Your Honor.”

Judge Phillips takes a moment to consider, then sides with me.

“Your objection is overruled, Ms. Randolph.”

Satisfaction pumps so hard in my veins it escapes in a low ha.

Things go downhill pretty quickly after that.

“Did you just ha me?” Kennedy hisses, like a wet cat.

I turn, facing her full frontal. “No I didn’t ha you. That would be unprofessional.”

“I definitely heard a ha.”