They Called Me Copy Girl. I Wrote the Law. Chapter 07

They Called Me Copy Girl. I Wrote the Law. Chapter 07: What He Wanted

The thirty-first floor at night is all glass and city lights and nobody around.

Sebastian Crane had his jacket off, sleeves rolled, a laptop open, and a wall of my own articles projected

behind him like an indictment.

“Sit,” he said.

“You keep telling me to sit.”

“You keep standing against walls like you’re furniture.”

I sat.

He turned the laptop toward me. The trial calendar. Speedy-trial clock. Jury selection in six days.

“Whitlock says plead,” he said. “Six firms say plead. And I know they’re wrong, because a woman in a Records cardigan told me exactly how my sister was going to lose and then didn’t let her.” He looked up. “So here’s

what I want. You try the case.”

“No.”

“I’ll pay whatever-”

“It isn’t money.”

“Then what is it?”

“I don’t try cases anymore. That’s the whole answer.”

“That’s not an answer, that’s a wall.” He stood, walked around the desk, and leaned against it in front of me. “I read the appellate decision. People v. Marlowe. Counsel of record: I. C. Marlowe. Relationship to defendant:

daughter.”

I sat very still.

“You want to talk about that,” I said, “or you want to talk about your sister?”

“Both. They’re the same conversation.” His voice dropped. “You think if you never stand up again, she stops losing. She doesn’t. She’s already gone. And every day you spend in that basement, you’re the second person that jury convicted.”

I stood up so fast the chair scraped.

“Somebody has to.”

“You are a stranger who wants my mouth-”

“I’m a man whose only family is nineteen years old and one bad ruling from Rikers,” he said, and his voice finally cracked, one hairline fracture in all that ice. “And yes. I want your voice in that room. I have wanted it since I watched you read a file in nine seconds and go white.”

We stood there breathing at each other.

“Whitlock has an audit running,” I said finally. “In two days I’m unemployed and referred for fraud.”

“You’re not, because you didn’t falsify anything – you underreported, and I have four lawyers who find that distinction delicious.” He picked up a folder and held it out. “But I’m not going to save you, Ms. Marlowe. I’m going to make it impossible for them to touch you. There’s a difference, and you’re going to have to choose it

out loud.”

I opened the folder.

Engagement agreement. Crane Holdings. Ninety million a year, twelve-year commitment.

And a rider, one page, four lines, that made my stomach drop:

9.3-All Crane Holdings matters at Pruitt Sterling shall be led or directly supervised by Ivy C. Marlowe, Esq. In the event Ms. Marlowe’s employment is terminated, suspended, or constructively dismissed, this Agreement is void ab initio and all fees paid become immediately repayable.
“You can’t do this.”

“It’s my money.”

“You’ve never seen me try a case.”

“I’ve seen you keep a girl out of jail with a column header and a bad attitude.” He shrugged. “I make ninety-million-dollar decisions on less.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then Lily pleads Thursday, does seven years for a crime a dead boy committed, and I never bother you again.” He held my eyes. “I’m not going to beg you, Ivy. That would be cheap and you’d hate me for it. I’m just going to tell you the truth: there is exactly one person in this city who can win this, and she’s been hiding in my law firm’s basement, and my sister’s life turns on what she says in the next thirty seconds.”

Somewhere across the river, a nineteen-year-old was sleeping with a monitor on her ankle.

I thought about my mother’s hands folded on a steel table.

You’re the only one here who can.

“Part 61,” I said.

“What?”

“Not Part 61. I’ll do it. Any courtroom in that building but Part 61.”

His face changed. “Why not 61?”

“Because that’s where my mother was convicted,” I said. “Now sit down. If we’re doing this, we pick a jury Monday, and you’re going to hate every single thing I’m about to demand.”