Blake Thompson, lawyer extraordinaire, defender of the weak shifters of the state, sat across from one of the most powerful senators in the state.
“You understand,” said Senator Kraft, “That this is entirely off the record.”
“What else is new,” said Blake, accepting the drink the man held out to him. He sniffed it – brandy, just as he had said. The senator had a tumbler full with ice, though Blake took his straight up.
“You usually get called in during these trying times, I hear,” Kraft said, sipping the brandy. “You’re one of the best lawyers for this kind of thing.”
“What kind of thing, actually?” Blake said, drinking some of the brandy. Good thing he didn’t have court today.
“I have a shifter friend. He’s been arrested for drug possession. This is his third offense.”
“There’s nothing I can do. Ninety-days’ jail time is mandatory.”
“Including time served?”
“Most of the time. That’s usually not difficult to add.”
“On the new moon – which is Thursday – he will change into his wolf form, and he doesn’t want to be anywhere near prisoners for that.”
“I take it he’s still in the closet?”
Kraft snorted, “He’s the son of one of my biggest backers. If it got out that he was a werewolf, we would all be ruined.”
Blake took another drink, swallowing any kind of retort along with the smooth liquor. “Bitten?”
“Yes.”
“Vibora Bay?”
“Yes.”
Blake sighed. “What is it you want?”
“No jail time. Or time served.”
“House arrest is probably the best I’m going to be able to do.”
“That’s acceptable.”
“And rehab after that.”
“Done.”
“This is going to cost a lot of effort on my part.” Not to mention possibly calling in some favors from the DA. He hated using chips for stupid clowns such as this.
“I have three thousand dollars here to start,” he pushed over a thin envelope. A check was inside made out to his firm, and in the memo was “retainer”. “Bill me for the rest.”
“What’s the son’s name? Where is he?”
“Westside jail. Mark Jenkins.”
“Great. They have riots all the time. As long as he keeps his nose clean, I should be able to get him out by Thursday.”
Blake left and went to the courthouse. He contacted the state-approved attorney who had stood with Jenkins at his arraignment, left three messages and finally offered to buy her dinner on the last message. She returned the call, telling him what restaurant to meet him at and she would have his files.
The restaurant was three doors down from his office, and he knew it well, having gone there many times himself for lunch. It was an Indian place, with excellent and vibrant food.
He was eating some naan when a red-haired woman stood by his table. She was built like a rotund ball, most of it at her stomach. He wondered if she was pregnant as he stood up to shake her hand. “Ms. Knipe?”
“Dana,” she said, shaking his hand firmly. She sat down and placed her briefcase in the chair next to her. “I’ve heard of you in the office. They say you represent shifters in murder cases.”
“Most of the time, but I go where the jobs are. And they’re homicides, not murders.”
Dana laughed, a deep throaty sound. “Semantics.”
“Truth.”
“Whatever.” She pulled out the menu. “Some say you’re a shifter yourself.”
“Not today.” He already had the menu memorized, and knew what he was having. She looked over her menu at him, and then chuckled. “So what brings you down into the dumps of drug possession?”
“I’m being paid well.”
“Is it all about money to you?”
“You’re doing this for the state. Don’t tell me you don’t want to get into a firm.”
“I’m doing this because I believe in most of the people I defend.”
“Most. What about the ones you don’t?”
“I’m sure they can tell. I haven’t been in this game long enough to play poker face.” She shrugged and went back to the menu. “Most of them appeal because I’m with the state, anyway.”
Blake liked this woman. He ordered a bottle of wine and watched as some people were seated behind her. “Ever been to this place?”
“Nope.”
“The saag is very good.”
“You can’t screw that up.”
He laughed, “Oh, I can’t make it right.”
“You actually make Indian food?”
“I try.”
“And you’re not married yet?” She put down the menu and stared at him.
“Neither are you.”
“I’m a cow.” She shrugged.
“No, you’re not.”
The waiter came over, right then and took their orders. She stayed safe with curry. He ordered the paneer saag with extra rice. She turned to the briefcase and pulled out the file. “He’s one of the Jenkins boys, did you know that?”
“Jenkins of…?”
“Lowery Foods in Detroit. They make the salt.”
Blake heard things clicking into place in his mind. Lowery Foods was a big company that produced all kinds of salt and condiments. Salt, pepper, garlic, spices of all kinds. And they were rich blue-bloods, if the price of salt was any indication.
Meanwhile, behind Dana, the voices were escalating. Already drunk when they walked in, the party behind her started getting rambunctious. Dana turned around a couple of times to give them looks, but they were either stupid or ignorant.
“Want me to get us another table?” asked Blake.
“Yes, since these people won’t calm down,” she said, loud enough for them to hear.
Blake stood up. One of the college kids said, “Hey, you got a problem?”
“I’m trying to have a civil conversation–”
The waiter came up to them at this time, the manager in tow. “Gentlemen – “
“I’d like to move our table.”
“Because you can’t fit,” said the college kid, and the rest of the group snickered.
Dana got up, grabbing her briefcase. “I’ll be going.”
One of the kids made a low mooing sound.
Blake narrowed his eyes at the group, letting the wolf shine through his eyes. They looked at him, and some of them cowered at the look he gave them. The ones who didn’t were silent.
“We’ll get our dinner to go,” said Blake, his voice a growl.
“No,” said the manager, “These people will leave.”
“Fine,” said one kid, getting up so fast that the chair tipped over. “Food sucks here, anyways.”
Dana stood there, watching as the college kids cleared out. She looked at Blake, who had calmed down. The manager held open the chair for her, and had her sit down. “I apologize for that. You will have the dinner with our compliments.”
Blake inclined his head. “Thanks, Gupta.”
He looked over their table. “Another bottle?”
“No thank you.”
Moments after that, dinner arrived. Blake said, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“What they said.”
Dana shrugged again, as if this kind of thing happened to her all the time. “I’m used to it.”
“You shouldn’t be.”
She looked up with a laugh. “There has to always be one odd man out in every crowd, and that’s me.”
He reached across the table and took her hand. Her face dropped into shock. “You shouldn’t take it.”
She slowly pulled her hand away. Her dinner had been finished. “Thank you for the lovely dinner, but I have to go feed my dog.”
He had been too direct. He had scared her away. He rose when she did, and shook her hand again. “I hope we work together again, Dana.”
“Anytime you have a drug possession charge, look me up. That’s my specialty.” She gave him a half-smile, and then wove her way between the tables and chairs out the door.
Writing prompt: Place somewhere in the story: “Behind her, the noise escalated.”