Page 87 of A Dead End Wedding

First, coffee. Then, decisions about the day's workload. As I poured water in the coffeemaker, I heard the front door open and Max's familiar voice calling my name. "I'm in here, Max."

She came rushing down the hall and stopped in the kitchen doorway, out of breath. "Did you see it? Did you see thePost Uniontoday?"

I glanced at her, wary of more bullfighter attire, but she wore a lovely green dress that made her look like Miss America at a tea party. All she needed was a tiara. Which she had at home. Maybe five or six.

I so need to hire an ugly person, so I don't look like chopped liver next to her.

The door opened again. "I'm here, chickie."

Perfect. I'll go stand next to Mr. Ellison.

"Hello? Earth to December?" Max said, shaking the paper at me. "Did you see this? I'm guessing no, or you wouldn't be standing there in your pre-coffee fugue state."

"You know me too well," I said, putting the coffee holder in and then pushing the machine's on button. "Did I see what?"

Mr. Ellison came stomping down the hall. "I ain't working for no druggie. You better go to rehab, or I'm quitting."

Max shoved the paper at me and then glared at Mr. Ellison. "You shut up. December has never touched drugs in her life. She's too much of a goody goody. She wouldn't even drink beer in high school, for God's sake."

"Hey! I am not a goody goody. I didn't like the taste!" I fumbled with the paper. "What am I looking at, and what the heck are you talking about, 'druggie'?"

I opened the paper, but Max snatched it out of my hands. "No, it's on the front page.Abovethe fold. Look here." She folded the paper and shoved it back at me, finger stabbing at the page.

I glanced down, then almost dropped the paper when I saw the headline.

JUNKIE LAWYERS MIGRATE SOUTH

Florida, long known as a haven for retiring northern attorneys, has a new label: Refuge for junkie lawyers. ThePost Unionhas discovered that six newly licensed Florida lawyers, all recently transplanted from northern states, have drug issues in their past.

December Vaughn, who was unavailable for comment when we went to press, admitted on her Ohio Bar Association to "experimenting with marijuana in one instance" in high school. . . .

Iclutched the paper so hard it crumpled, then looked up at Max, my mouth hanging open down to about my knees. "What? How? That bar app is confidential! How the hell did the newspaper get it? And how does trying pot one time – that wasyourfault, Max, if you remember – equate to being a 'junkie lawyer'? I'll sue their freaking pants off!"

I felt the blood drain out of my face as I contemplated all the clients I didn't evenhaveyet bailing on me and running for more respectable attorneys.

"It gets worse," Max said. "Look below the fold."

I whipped the paper open and looked.

Addison Langley, top local trial lawyer, stated that the influx of the "lowest common denominator" attorneys could only have a negative effect on the level of practice.

There was a picture of the slimy turd. Top local trial lawyer, my butt. He looked like a pompous ass to me.

"I knew December was some kind of hippie name. I ain't hanging around if you're planning any drug parties," Mr. Ellison said, hopping up and down.

He stopped to draw a breath, and I grabbed Max's arm before she punched him.

She tried to yank her arm out of my grasp and started yelling. "Let me go! Let me smack that little weasel! Howdareyou . . . you little ferret!"

I stepped between them, feeling my breakfast donut trying to come back up with about a quart of stomach acid. "Okay. Nobody is a druggie, got it?"

He had the grace to look embarrassed and shuffled his feet a little. "Ah, I didn't mean it, girlie, er, boss."

I closed my eyes and moaned. A goody-goody or a druggie. Well, those are choices that will certainly make the clients flock into my office.

12

"So, I hear you've got a drug problem," said a familiar voice. I didn't even have to look up to know it was Jake; my thighs clenching was enough of a clue.

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