Misadventures with a Lawyer

  Misadventures with a Lawyer

  Julie Morgan

  This book is an original publication of Waterhouse Press.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2021 Waterhouse Press, LLC

  Cover Design by Waterhouse Press

  Cover photographs: Shutterstock

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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  Thank you for the support and love.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  More Misadventures

  About Julie Morgan

  Chapter One

  Ainsley

  On Friday, I woke with excitement for Ashley’s wedding. My best friend since childhood, Ashley of course had asked me to be one of her bridesmaids, and I couldn’t wait to get the weekend started.

  Today, we had a full schedule of hair and nail appointments and other fun plans before the rehearsal dinner tonight. It was time to get my bridesmaid duty on.

  I bounced out of bed toward the kitchen as my phone rang. I predicted it to be Ashley, but instead it was Amy, our law firm’s receptionist.

  “Hi, Ainsley,” she said.

  “Hi,” I answered, trying to hide my apprehension about why she was calling me.

  “Mr. Newstrom is wondering when he should expect you at the office.”

  “But I’m supposed to be off today,” I told her.

  “Well, according to him, you’re still working on Mr. Vanderbilt’s case, and you’re expected to be at the office and, shortly after that, court.”

  She wasn’t short or curt, but she got her point across.

  Chase Newstrom, my boss and the owner of the law firm I worked for, knew I had a full weekend of wedding plans with my best friend. I had it on both of our calendars. He had said he had no issue with me taking Friday off, yet here we were, with me expected to work after all.

  “Thanks, Amy,” I mumbled. “I’ll be there in an hour.” And I hung up.

  It hurt like hell that he didn’t care about plans I’d made for my own personal time and he’d had the receptionist call to break the news. Should he have cared about what I had been planning to do? No, not necessarily, but what if it were something important like surgery? I couldn’t have canceled that just because he needed me in the office.

  This wasn’t surgery, though, nor my wedding. Thank goodness. I was so not ready for that.

  I phoned Ashley and the other bridesmaids and broke the bad news about not being able to join them for the hair and nail appointments. Ashley wasn’t happy. In fact, she said she’d disown me if I skipped any of the other wedding events.

  I would disown me as a friend too.

  Sitting.

  Waiting.

  Anticipating.

  These three words have become my life. Good things come to those who wait? What a lie. Whoever came up with that didn’t understand law students waiting for their bar exam results or a girl wanting to meet up with her best friend on the eve of her wedding.

  I knew from the moment I was a little girl that I wanted to be an attorney. I wanted to stand up for those who had no voice, to help victims of crimes who could not help themselves. Our professors had always encouraged us to follow our passion, so it was a surprise when I had sat in on my first court hearing and realized prosecution might not be for me. Instead, it was defense.

  Surprisingly, I found many cases were tried where the defendant was actually innocent. They needed someone to hear their side of the story and fight their fight. That was where I wanted to stand, next to the falsely accused.

  It was the middle of May in Dallas, Texas. The sun made it feel like we were in Satan’s backyard while he grilled dogs and invited the demons and hellspawn over for sweet tea. It felt so hot that I wondered if one could potentially cook bacon on the sidewalk—not that I’d ever try that, of course.

  I was thankful to be spending the day in the air conditioning of the courthouse, even if I wished I were somewhere else entirely. Still, this was my professional passion, so things could be worse.

  The law firm I was working for—until my exam results came through—represented many of the high court cases. Rich, deep pockets crossed our threshold and often said, “Money is no object.” They demanded our representation, and they received it…most of the time.

  Alleged crooked politicians, extortionists, and financial advisors who stole money from their clients—we represented them all. The only clients our firm would turn away were cases having to deal with serial killers, serial rapists, and abuse of children. If the evidence was enough to prove innocence, however, the firm would consider the case. More often than not, though, there were some lines even we wouldn’t cross.

  The courthouse atmosphere was chilly inside, and that wasn’t from the air conditioning. The judge looked bored. His eyes were half-hooded, and he rested his chin on his hand. I picked at the corner of my binder, where one day it would hold my own business cards, which would say Ainsley Speire - Attorney at Law.

  I’d looked forward to this day since I was a little girl. I loved a good debate and would argue until my face turned blue. The only thing on the walls of my small office was my law degree from the University of Texas. My father had it framed a bit larger than it needed to be, and it took up much more wall space than it needed to. I didn’t care. I loved it.

  I turned through the notes in my binder. Everything was leading toward a win for us. It was a matter of time before the prosecution rested their case and we took over and wrapped it up.

  That was where Chase Newstrom, lawyer extraordinaire, always came in. He seldom lost a case, and as a defense attorney, that was a golden flag one would want to fly at the top of their pole.

  He sat back in his chair and pressed the tips of his fingers together like a steeple. They rested against the tip of his nose, his thumbs pressed against his chin. His dark-brown hair was styled perfectly, his lashes long and thick, and his baby-blue eyes stared straight at the back of the city attorney’s head.

  Chase was a beautiful man, and he knew it. He’d done a photoshoot for his firm, and I was honestly curious when GQ would come knocking on his door. Women hung on to every word he spoke, though more than half had no idea what the man was talking about. He was a tour de force of masculinity and brooding good looks. He was a successful defense attorney, wealthy, and had the beauty of a fallen angel and body of a Greek god.

  Hell, beautiful didn’t describe him. I could have easily drooled over the man, but he had no idea who I was, other than an intern hoping to make a career for herself. I sup
pose I should feel fortunate he took me on, and I am grateful, but what I wouldn’t give for five minutes with the man.

  While he was at the office, he was clean-shaven and took his appearance seriously. The man wore top-of-the-line clothing attire, whereas I bought my dresses and pantsuits from stores like Ross and Marshalls. It was what I could afford. Chase had every article of clothing custom-tailored to him, while with some of mine, the waist was too big or the pant legs or skirts were too long. I dreamed of the day I’d be able to have custom-tailored clothes.

  Doubtful, but a woman could dream.

  “Never miss a chance to make a perfect first impression” was one of the first things he said to me during my interview, while he took in my choice of clothes. He didn’t undress me with his eyes, though. He was more or less judging me for my lack of fashion sense. But I was here to hopefully practice law, not make a fashion statement.

  I closed my eyes and thought about all the delicious things I would do to him and how he would ruin me for anyone else. I cleared my throat and opened my eyes once more to try to focus on the case instead of the scent of his cologne. It hypnotized me. I could bathe in it.

  Some of the women I had seen coming and going through the office looked as if they were models who had just stepped off the runway. Tall and very slender with clothes that flowed from their toothpick bodies. Some were clearly fake and took an interest in Chase just because of his looks and money. It was sad, really. They reminded me of marionette dolls on strings, puppeted by an ego so thick they couldn’t see the idiocy of their own being.

  The song from Pinocchio about having no strings to hold him down played through my mind.

  I giggled at myself and hummed the tune in my head.

  Then there was me. I was an average woman with a typical body. I wasn’t rail thin, but I was proportionate.

  In the early morning hours, I would sometimes catch Chase after he finished up at the gym. He would come in with his workout clothes on, his gym shirt stuck to his sweat-covered chest and back and the shadow of the previous day’s growth on his cheeks and chin. I would try not to stare, but I couldn’t help myself. If he was facing me, his shorts were sometimes fitted, and the outline of his cock… He was well packaged. The man was a god among men. And he had no idea I even existed.

  Did he know I’d just taken the bar exam? Did he know I wanted to work in his office if I passed? Would he let me stay once I was certified? Would he help mold my career?

  Did he realize I hung on every single word he muttered?

  These were questions that would, in time, one way or the other, be answered. For now, I was content learning and listening to as much as he’d allow.

  The client we were representing was Lance Vanderbilt, the starting quarterback for his college. His family donated large sums of money to multiple charities annually, and he had scouts after him, as he was assured to go pro. He had his whole life ahead of him but stood accused of raping Miranda Cooper, an acquaintance of his.

  Lance groaned in what sounded like boredom.

  I glanced at the six-foot-four, light-blond-haired, tanned-skinned quarterback and found him slouched in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his left leg bouncing in a nervous twitch.

  I reached over the spectator wall and tapped his shoulder.

  He turned and looked at me, then rolled his eyes.

  “What’s your problem?” I whispered to Lance.

  “When will this be over?” he asked. “I didn’t do it, and I want to go home.”

  “Give Mr. Newstrom the time to win your case, and you’ll be home before you know it. Now, please, be quiet, sit up straight, and stop yawning.”

  “I’m trying,” he whispered back as he sat up.

  The judge looked over to us and frowned.

  I sat back in my seat and watched as Chase stood to begin his part of the question-and-answer session. He paced back and forth as he questioned the witness, Joy Anderson, who was a friend of the accuser. She was pretty in a girl-next-door sort of way.

  I thought back to the conversation we’d had with Lance during our initial interview.

  “Did you have sex with her?” Chase asked him.

  Lance nodded. “Yes, on a number of occasions. We were very close. I don’t understand why she would say I raped her. It was never like that.”

  “Why would she do this now?” I asked. “What would be her motive?”

  Chase looked to me and then to Lance. “Your family is quite wealthy, are they not?”

  Lance nodded. “Yeah, my dad comes from money. He didn’t want me dating Miranda because she was poor and from the wrong side of the tracks.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I asked.

  Chase sat back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest. He lifted his brow and gave me a look that said are you serious.

  I frowned and gave my attention back to Lance.

  “Her family is dirt poor,” Chase said. “Dad told me if I didn’t watch myself and cover my shit, I could get her pregnant, and then her family would come after us for money. But I always used protection.” Lance shook his head. “My dad said she was a ‘gold-digging whore.’ I never thought she’d ever do that. She seemed so honest. I never saw this coming.”

  I refocused my attention to listen to Chase grill Joy Anderson.

  “Is it true, Miss Anderson, that you did not see the plaintiff, Miss Miranda Cooper, until two days after she accused my client of rape?”

  “Correct,” Joy answered.

  “Then help me and the court understand, Miss Anderson, how you claim to have witnessed the rape, but you were not with the plaintiff until two days later.”

  “Well, I wasn’t exactly in the room—”

  “Objection!” yelled the prosecuting attorney.

  “Overruled,” the judge ordered. “Continue with your questioning, Mr. Newstrom.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Chase said. “Please, Miss Anderson, state for the court, if you would, that you were not in the room, nor did you witness the rape of the plaintiff, Miss Miranda Cooper.”

  I watched the witness sink in her chair in defeat. I was positive she was praying for the floor to open up and swallow her. If you lie on the stand, you could be charged with perjury. Your testimony would be dismissed, and the case for the plaintiff would look questionable.

  “I… I was not there, no. But—”

  “Thank you. Your Honor, I’m done with this witness,” Chase said and turned his back on Joy Anderson.

  “You may step down,” the judge said.

  Joy stood, and a tear slid down her cheek. I’m sorry, she mouthed toward her friend Miranda. She looked over to our witness, Lance Vanderbilt. “You’re a fucking dirtbag who deserves to die for what you did!”

  “You will be held in contempt if you speak another word, Miss Anderson,” the judge ordered. “Do you understand?”

  I glanced over to Chase and found him smirking. This wasn’t quite what he had wanted, but the fact that the woman was accusing Lance of lying when it was she who lied was enough to dismiss the charges.

  Maybe.

  “The jury will dismiss this outburst from the witness, and the reporter will strike the statement from the record,” the judge instructed.

  Chase had told Lance early on he would not put him on the stand. He wanted to break down the witness and her stories—her lies. So far, it was working. I glanced at Miranda, and she squirmed in her chair.

  According to Lance, no rape had ever happened. He had an account of his time with her, and that was up to Chase to present as evidence.

  In comes Miranda Cooper, beautiful and with a shy demeanor. She came from a poor family, her brother had been in and out of jail for drugs, her father was nonexistent, and her mother had boyfriends turn over more often than riders of Greyhound.

  Lance had been attracted to Miranda, as apparently she had been to him. The two had dated for a while, and one night he’d taken her to a frat party. He’d kept her by
his side the entire night and watched what she drank. Too many college girls were roofied and taken advantage of. But not Miranda, and definitely not by Lance.

  The night was in full swing, and Miranda Cooper wanted to have sex. She came on to Lance and seduced him to take her up into one of the bedrooms. Lance had used protection.

  Fast forward two days later, Miranda claimed she was raped by Lance.

  At first, Lance claimed he didn’t understand what was happening, that Miranda was his girlfriend and he’d never rape her or force her to do anything she didn’t want to do. But the accusations continued.

  Lance’s parents reached out immediately to Chase for legal assistance and hired him and his team.

  Almost a year later, here we were in court over a he said, she said court case. All of the discovery had been covered, and nothing new had been presented.

  Until today.

  “Your Honor, I have a new witness who will prove the forceful rape of my client, Miss Miranda Cooper.”

  Chase frowned and stood. “Objection, Your Honor. This evidence has not been presented in discovery.”

  The judge shook his head and glared at the prosecution. “I should dismiss this case for the lack of integrity on your part as a prosecutor.” The judge picked up his anvil. “The evidence will be shared and reviewed. We’ll recess for the weekend and return to continue then.”

  I leaned forward to Lance. “Just three days and this is over,” I reminded him.

  “Three days too long, Chase,” he said to my boss. “I didn’t rape her.”

  “I know you didn’t. We’ll get you off. Don’t worry.” Chase closed his briefcase.