I pick up the folder.
“His brother and his wife passed away, leaving him with his three niblings. A terrible accident. She died in the ambulance. He died in the hospital a few hours later.”
I let my eyes wander over the words, not wanting to let the cramp in my stomach return and remind me why I only take on such cases when absolutely necessary.
“Their parents have entrusted the kids to their uncle, but their maternal grandmother has recently come forward.”
I look at Paul over my glasses.
“She thinks our potential client is unsuitable.”
I take off my glasses and throw them on the documents, which are now on my desk.
“Spit it out, Paul.”
“Well, he’s…”
“What?”
“He’s gay.”
“I see.” I shake my head gently. “Are you putting me on this case just because I’m bisexual?”
“Yes.”
“You suck. Seriously. You suck as a friend, and you suck as a partner.”
“This kind of case helps our image, and you know how much we need it.”
Unfortunately for me, Paul is right.
Paul and I worked together for several years in a large law firm in the city. We paid our dues like everyone else. We did research, stakeouts, document deliveries, and even made coffee—anything to earn a place at the partners’ table one day. We dealt with nasty cases, clients we didn’t like, real bastards. And we were okay with that. In the end, we were trying to make a name for ourselves in a world of sharks until ‘the case’ came into Paul’s hands, the one that forces you to decide whether you are one of those willing to sell your soul to the highest bidder, or whether you still have a shred of conscience left in you.
Paul didn’t have to think much about it, and I, to be honest, even less. He left the firm, and I followed him. The fact that we had put hidden evidence in the hands of opposing lawyers that would have helped the case move in the right direction did not help our careers.
They totally burned everything around us. We could not have expected anything else. But it helped us. It helped us realise that what we were doing was not our destiny.
“May I?” George, our secretary, peeps into my office. “The client is waiting for you,” he says, addressing me.
I look at Paul.
“We need this case,” he insists as if that alone justifies his ambush. Then he turns to George. “Inform him that Mr Kennedy will be joining him shortly.”
George nods, then leaves us alone.
I stand and walk towards the glass, peering into the waiting room. I glance at my ‘new’ client, then turn to my friend. “Do I have to?”
Paul also approaches the glass. “What’s wrong with him?”
“You mean, what’s right with him…” I huff. Fingers massage my eyelids, hoping to nip this new stress wave in the bud. “How many niblings did you say he has?”
“Three.”
I snort again. “You know very well I don’t like children.”
Paul puts his hand on my arm. “And you know I can’t stand your arms. God, what is it, iron?”
I look at him sideways.
