“It’s just an upset stomach. A headache. I can deal with this.”
Steeling herself, she rose slowly and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The wood floor pricked her feet but she welcomed the distraction. Chilled toes trumped queasiness any day.
Moistening her lips, she moved out of her bedroom and down the center hall of her house. Located off Seminary Road near the Capital Beltway, the house had been built after World War II and came complete with plaster walls and crown molding in each room. Large fireplaces with marble mantels dominated the living room and original hardwood floors ran throughout the house.
The place was neat, clean and organized, but to say she’d attempted any kind of decorating would be an exaggeration. The kitchen hadn’t been updated in thirty years but she didn’t have an eye for colors and fabrics and couldn’t summon the patience to live among scaffolding and ladders. And considering her repertoire of meals included just toast and cereal, a fancy kitchen didn’t matter.
Angie dug into her refrigerator past bottles of wine and half-eaten discs of cheese to retrieve a bottle of ginger ale. She untwisted the top, savored the fizzing sound and filled a clean glass from the cabinet. She sipped the ale, enjoying the burn even as she prayed the liquid would stay down.
She leaned forward over the sink and stared out her kitchen window into the small yard that she paid a boy from the neighborhood to maintain. A large century-old oak provided protection from the summer sun but hogged so much water and light it choked the grass. A small round wrought-iron table and three matching chairs rested under the tree. She’d paid a small fortune for the table and chairs because she’d imagined leisurely Sunday breakfasts at the table. In the last two years she’d had a grand total of two meals in the shade.
In the last few months, her days had been consumed with her work as a defense attorney in the small but growing law firm of Wellington and James. In a regular year junior partners rarely had much free time, but this last year had demanded a punishing schedule. Her life had been consumed with her defense of Dr. James Dixon, a successful plastic surgeon who’d been accused of attempted murder.
Dixon who frequented prostitutes often had been suspected of killing several missing women whom he’d hired for sex. But no solid evidence linked the doctor to the missing women. Then a prostitute, Lulu Sweet, had fled his hotel room, screaming that he’d tried to kill her. Police had their first concrete evidence against the doctor. They’d arrested him for attempted murder. Angie had been able to demonstrate that the prostitute had lied about her drug use on the stand. In the end, she’d torn the young woman apart. The witness’s testimony had been struck and Angie had planted enough seeds of reasonable doubt in the jury’s mind to get an acquittal. Dr. James Dixon was now a free man. She’d become a minor superstar in the law community and had received offers to practice at larger firms. She’d opted to stay with Wellington and James.
Angie had asked Dixon if he were guilty and he’d sworn he was innocent. Despite nagging doubts she’d taken the case. She’d become a lawyer because she believed in the justice system, which demanded every defendant receive a good defense. And she’d delivered her best to Dixon.
That ideal had been as shiny as a new penny when she’d been in law school. She’d had visions of saving the world’s downtrodden from an unjust system. But five years of practicing defense law for too many clients like Dixon had tarnished that ideal. Now dreams of justice had been replaced by nightmares featuring the victims of her clients.
Angie sipped her ginger ale and turned from the window. Charlotte Wellington had promised that once the Dixon case had been resolved, Angie could do more pro bono work. Perhaps now she could get back to the law that had once excited
Steeling herself, she rose slowly and swung her legs over the side of the bed. The wood floor pricked her feet but she welcomed the distraction. Chilled toes trumped queasiness any day.
Moistening her lips, she moved out of her bedroom and down the center hall of her house. Located off Seminary Road near the Capital Beltway, the house had been built after World War II and came complete with plaster walls and crown molding in each room. Large fireplaces with marble mantels dominated the living room and original hardwood floors ran throughout the house.
The place was neat, clean and organized, but to say she’d attempted any kind of decorating would be an exaggeration. The kitchen hadn’t been updated in thirty years but she didn’t have an eye for colors and fabrics and couldn’t summon the patience to live among scaffolding and ladders. And considering her repertoire of meals included just toast and cereal, a fancy kitchen didn’t matter.
Angie dug into her refrigerator past bottles of wine and half-eaten discs of cheese to retrieve a bottle of ginger ale. She untwisted the top, savored the fizzing sound and filled a clean glass from the cabinet. She sipped the ale, enjoying the burn even as she prayed the liquid would stay down.
She leaned forward over the sink and stared out her kitchen window into the small yard that she paid a boy from the neighborhood to maintain. A large century-old oak provided protection from the summer sun but hogged so much water and light it choked the grass. A small round wrought-iron table and three matching chairs rested under the tree. She’d paid a small fortune for the table and chairs because she’d imagined leisurely Sunday breakfasts at the table. In the last two years she’d had a grand total of two meals in the shade.
In the last few months, her days had been consumed with her work as a defense attorney in the small but growing law firm of Wellington and James. In a regular year junior partners rarely had much free time, but this last year had demanded a punishing schedule. Her life had been consumed with her defense of Dr. James Dixon, a successful plastic surgeon who’d been accused of attempted murder.
Dixon who frequented prostitutes often had been suspected of killing several missing women whom he’d hired for sex. But no solid evidence linked the doctor to the missing women. Then a prostitute, Lulu Sweet, had fled his hotel room, screaming that he’d tried to kill her. Police had their first concrete evidence against the doctor. They’d arrested him for attempted murder. Angie had been able to demonstrate that the prostitute had lied about her drug use on the stand. In the end, she’d torn the young woman apart. The witness’s testimony had been struck and Angie had planted enough seeds of reasonable doubt in the jury’s mind to get an acquittal. Dr. James Dixon was now a free man. She’d become a minor superstar in the law community and had received offers to practice at larger firms. She’d opted to stay with Wellington and James.
Angie had asked Dixon if he were guilty and he’d sworn he was innocent. Despite nagging doubts she’d taken the case. She’d become a lawyer because she believed in the justice system, which demanded every defendant receive a good defense. And she’d delivered her best to Dixon.
That ideal had been as shiny as a new penny when she’d been in law school. She’d had visions of saving the world’s downtrodden from an unjust system. But five years of practicing defense law for too many clients like Dixon had tarnished that ideal. Now dreams of justice had been replaced by nightmares featuring the victims of her clients.
Angie sipped her ginger ale and turned from the window. Charlotte Wellington had promised that once the Dixon case had been resolved, Angie could do more pro bono work. Perhaps now she could get back to the law that had once excited
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