Page 4 of Studfinder

“I need to head out,” I tell Sullivan, and he nods. “But I’ll be back after court.”

This turns Jake’s head in my direction. “What are you going to court for?”

“I’m an attorney by day.” Some people consider my law practice fledgling, and I never know if that’s a compliment or an insult after all this time. May Shipley is my partner, and I love her energy for the law. Although she started out with the typical real estate contracts and farm disputes when I brought her on, I’ve handed over more and more of my client list and prospective cases.

I’ve been a lawyer for almost twenty years, and I’ve loved it. Taking over Kaplan and Associates—now Kaplan and Shipley—from my father was an honor and a necessity, but I’m lacking luster with the same old thing. I brought May on with the intention that one day she could take over the practice in its entirety although I’ve never given her a specific start date to my retirement. Forty-three seems too young to retire. Even though I recognize a need for renewed passion in something, I’m not certain what I’ll do with the next half of my life.

“Attorney-client confidentiality.” I wink at Jake, emphasizing I won’t be telling him more about my case although it’s nothing other than petty theft. Maybe one day I’ll prosecute the couch thief for stealing my seat at the Bean.

4

Jake

Sullivan Vance seems like a decent guy. He’s quiet and a little clumsy. He wears your typical oversized jeans, displaying a slight plumber’s crack when he bends forward, but he’s strong and vested in this project for Building Buddies. I’d honestly never heard of this organization before being assigned here for my parole. I don’t need to explain myself to the group. They know why I’m here, at least on a simplistic level. Only those at the top know the severity of my case. What happened. Why I went to prison.

In truth, it’s an unsolved mystery. I didn’t do it. With the evidence stacked against me, though, and a department-appointed attorney with strong political ties to the State assigned to me, I didn’t have a prayer of getting off for a crime I didn’t commit. I also had my reasons for not fighting the sentence. None of it matters now, though. The bottom line is I don’t trust lawyers, which leaves me conflicted about Rita.

“So, what’s her story?” I ask Sullivan as we halt for a half-hour lunch break. The job is typically eight to four, and the collaboration of workers rotates with Sully in the lead, Rita as supervisor, and me as a permanent member of the team. I don’t mind the work. Every day is one more day closer to freedom, and I keep that in mind every time I hammer, drill, or, in today’s case, eventually run wire.

“Who?”

“Rita,” I state, hoping not to betray my curiosity.

“She’s good people.”

Though I wait on Sully to expand his answer, he doesn’t, and I swallow a thick bite of my organic peanut butter and raspberry jam on wheat. My brother, Nolan, made me the sandwich like he’s my mother or something. If he starts writing me inspirational notes of encouragement, he’s fired from lunch-packing duty.

“I know”—although I don’t—“but what’s her deal? Why does she work for Building Buddies?”

Sullivan shrugs. “Been working here for years. Started with her dad.”

Silence falls again, and I see I’ll need to pull the string to keep Sully talking.

“And her dad is . . .”

“Judge Kaplan. He died a few years back.” Good ole Sully. A man of words.

A judge? Jesus, I hate those almost as much as attorneys. Judge Kaplan . . . the name is not familiar.

“And she just kept working here after he passed.” It’s more of a question, and Sullivan takes the bait.

“Continued on with her fiancé.”

“Rita’s engaged?” My voice rises. I don’t recall a ring on her finger, and I haven’t had a hint she’s attached to someone. In fact, I swore she was interested by the way she eyed me that first meeting. At least a spark of something flickered as she stared at me that entire session, but then again, it could have been the lighting and how it hit her lenses. She wasn’t wearing those red-hot glasses this morning, giving me a better shot of those baby blues, and the glare she gave said she was on the verge of throat-punching me—or kissing me.

“Nah. He died, too.”

Shit. I choke on another bite of sandwich I’d taken while waiting on Sullivan’s response.

“That’s . . . sad.” I swallow around the thick chunk of bread in my throat. I’ve experienced my share of death in my family. My mother died when I was eighteen and a freshman in college. Her death was one of the reasons I was back in the area. Nolan was too young to be on his own, and our father had long since fled the family.

“How long were they engaged?” I ask for some reason, thinking back to my own engagement years ago and the eventual divorce from my wife.

Sullivan shrugs again. “Don’t know. She was, and then she wasn’t.”

My shoulders sag with sympathy. Rita is still a thorn in my side, but this information softens the wound a bit.

“You about done?” Sullivan asks, nodding at the last corner of my sandwich. Shoving the final bite in my mouth, I nod, and we wad up our trash. Nolan’s been making my lunch in a brown paper sack because I refused to use a lunchbox like some damn kid. Considering I was once a student in natural resource studies, I should be using an environmentally sound carrier for my meal and need to reconsider the idea of a paper sack. After years of eating off a segmented tray, I need to rethink many things in my life.