Page 5 of Passionate Defense

He tried to keep his profanity at a minimum, but he lost his filter when it came to the asshole who sexually harassed the woman he loved.

“Indeed, I did. Coming home and finding you pacing and angry has that effect on me. As does the mention of that asshole’s name. I should have beaten the shit out of him when you told me what he did.”

“But you didn’t because I asked you nicely. Besides, that was four years ago, before we even met. You can’t beat up every jerk from my past.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and drawled, “Wanna bet?”

“Ethan!”

“What did Simons do this time?” he asked, circling back to the point of the matter.

“He assigned me another capital murder case. Can you believe it? I just closed out my files and turned in the billing on the Deevers case last week.”

“And you’re surprised?” he asked.

Junior associates rarely had the freedom to cherry-pick their clients. This was true in most every law firm in the nation. The newest attorneys were assigned the cases the partners didn’t want to deal with. At WW&S, these were mostly court appointed because the accused couldn’t afford an attorney. This meant felony cases, everything from drug and gun charges to sexual assault and first-degree murder. With 3000 attorneys contracted by the Private Counsel Division to take the overflow from the public defenders’ offices, it was unusual for one law firm to represent four high-profile murder cases in as many years, much less the same attorney.

While they were paid by the state, they received a flat rate well below their usual fees. The senior partners didn’t care about the outcome because the defendants were without money and influence; in essence, throwaways. The only positive for the firm was name recognition and publicity. Lanie only brought more of both. She’d won all her cases and while she avoided the press, she couldn’t do it all the time, and the cameras loved her.

Assigning her was a win for all, except Lanie. Ordinarily, a firm wouldn’t subject a new attorney to the stress of one headlining case after another, not if they wanted to hang onto them. If they were trying to make life unbearable as payback or trying to get them to leave, they’d keep piling it on, like Walt Simons was doing with Lanie.

“I know how the low-man-on-the-totem-pole philosophy works,” she said grudgingly. “But they made me promises. I went to Arthur to discuss the junior partnership who referred me to Roger. He passed me along to Walt.”

The thought of her speaking to Simons directly, probably in his office with the door closed, set his teeth on edge. The memory of what occurred didn’t sit well with her, either, because she began pacing again.

“If you recall, I complained when Morton Deevers’ case landed on my desk. They all assured me, if I was a team player and took it without a fuss, I’d be setting myself up nicely for a junior partnership. I know”—she held up her hand, stopping any editorial comments he might have, which were plenty—“trusting them as far as I can throw them was my first mistake. But the past is done. I went along with it, worked my ass off, and shocked everyone by getting an acquittal. I exceeded everyone’s expectations—”

“Except mine. I knew you could do it.”

“Thank you, honey, but unfortunately, I don’t get to work for you.”

Immediately, he started thinking about how to make that happen.

“When I confronted Walt,” she went on, “about the promises they made over a year ago, what do I hear? We aren’t in the right place to take on another junior partner at this time,” she mimicked as she paced in clear agitation. “You’re on the shortlist when it’s time. Then, I get an email announcing Arlan Pritsky would be a new junior partner, effective the first of the month.”

“Who? I’ve never heard you mention him.”

Coming to the end of the room, she spun on her heel and met his gaze, her hazel eyes snapping with fire. “Because I’d never heard of him until today. They brought him in from outside the firm over me and six other qualified women already on board. The good old boys’ club strikes again,” she exclaimed, resuming her pacing. “They had no intention of making me a junior partner. They just fed me that bull to keep me in line. Shortlist, my ass.”

He stood and crossed the room to stand in her path. When she paced in his direction, she stopped in front of him. “I know you’re upset but swearing like a sailor isn’t going to help.”

With her hands on her hips, she tossed her head in defiance. “You just did.”

“I shouldn’t have. It didn’t vent my spleen anyway.”

“What does that mean?”

“Make me feel better.”

“Hmph,” she grunted. “That’s where we’re different. Cursing those sons of bitches always makes me feel a helluva lot better.”

Ethan ran his hands up her bare arms and cupped her shoulders. She was wound as tight as a spring, the tension beneath his fingers palpable. Gathering her close, he wrapped her up tight, one hand stroking the length of caramel-kissed brown hair, the silky waves falling halfway down her back. Holding her soothed them both, but she needed comfort a lot more than he did in recent days. Check that, recent months under the burden of the case load she carried.

“How about some good news?” he asked.

“There’s such a thing? I had wondered.”

He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew his phone. With a few swipes of his thumb, he pulled up today’s edition ofThe Dallas Observerand angled the screen toward her. She read the headline out loud. “Justice for Abbie Dolenz.”

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