The downside?

I have to spend my time with fucknuts like Milton Bradley.

He slips a cigarette out from his pocket and lights it with a flick of his Zippo. He jerks his head, flopping his thin blond hair back off his forehead as he releases a cloud of toxic smoke from his nostrils. Like an impotent dragon who doesn’t know how to blow fire.

“You can’t smoke in here.”

“Who says?” he replies with a challenge in his eyes.

Moving smoothly, I’m out of my chair and in front of him, looming like a black cloud ready to thunder. I’m aware of my size—six five, two hundred and twenty-five pounds of rock-solid muscle—and the effect it has on people. I’m pretty goddamn intimidating, even when I’m not trying to be. But at the moment?

I’m trying.

“I say.” My voice is low—menacingly quiet.

When you mean what you say and say exactly what you mean, there’s rarely a need to raise your voice. Yelling is a sign of desperation, an indication that you’re out of options, with nothing behind your back but volume.

I hold out a styrofoam cup with a bit of cold coffee left on the bottom. Without a word of complaint, Milton drops his cigarette into the liquid. It goes out with a hiss, leaving an unpleasant odor in its wake.

Most of my clients are wealthy, some not so much. But they all find their way to my office door because of similar personality traits. They’re cheats, con men, those who think they’re above the rules the rest of us have to follow, general lowlifes, their violent nature concealed by a smiling face. Criminal defense really isn’t so different from proctology. In both fields, it’s one asshole after another. This line of work isn’t for the faint of heart—you have to have a strong stomach. And my stomach is steel.

“How do we make this go away, Jake?” the elder Bradley asks from his chair beside his son. His eyes, nearly as black as his suit, regard me with an acceptable level of respect. Because he understands what his progeny doesn’t: that while I may work for him, he needs me more than I will ever need him.

I walk back behind my desk and look over the arrest report in front of me.

“The witnesses said your behavior was erratic—threatening.”

“They’re lying. Envious slime,” Milton sneers.

“The stewardess said she smelled marijuana when you exited the first-class cabin bathroom.”

His eyes shift nervously to his father for just a moment, then settle back on me. Chin raised—so offended. “I smelled it too. Must have been one of the other passengers.”

I make a note on the file, just to amuse myself. I’ve passed kidney stones bigger than this kid’s brain.

Justifications and explanations. Some days I feel like I’ve heard them all. I couldn’t help myself. He made me do it. She asked for it. I was asleep. I was walking the goddamn dog. It’d be nice if they put at least a little effort into their bullshit. Originality used to mean something.

“Some advice for future reference?” I tell young, entitled Milton. “Don’t screw around with the Federal Aviation Administration. They’re very sensitive these days and they’ve got the budget to make your life miserable.” Then I turn to the father. “And in answer to your question, Malcolm, it’d be easier to make this go away if your son could refrain from getting himself arrested every few weeks.”

Two DUIs, a disorderly conduct, and an assault in a bar fight—all within just the last three months. I bet you think that’s some kind of record.

It’s not.

“So you’re saying we can’t win?” Milton asks, his voice cracking like he’s Bobby from The Brady Bunch.

My lips slide into a half grin that feels cold on my face.

“Of course we’re going to win. You took medication before the flight for anxiety. That’s our angle. A bad reaction to the pills, which explains your offensive behavior. A sworn statement from the prescribing physician should be sufficient.”

It’s almost too easy.

I point my finger at him. “But for the next six weeks, you need to stay home. Keep your name out of the papers and off of TMZ. Don’t drive, don’t go out to the clubs, don’t fart in a public place. You understand?”

Malcolm grins and places his hand on his son’s shoulder. “We do.” The three of us stand. “As always, thank you, Jake. We’re lucky to have you on our side.”

“I’ll be in touch.” And with a handshake, they’re gone.

• • •

Two hours later I’m sliding into my suit jacket, ready to head out to lunch. I automatically straighten my tie, adjust my collar—to ensure the scattering of tattoos that begins at my collarbone, wraps around my right shoulder, and trails down to the end of my wrist is covered. It’s a bitch in the summer, but the presence of ink tends to make my upper-crust clients uncomfortable, and it’s never well received by judges.

My secretary, Mrs. Higgens, walks into my office. Mrs. Higgens is the classic little old lady, right down to the pearl necklace and spectacles—the kind you’d expect to be sitting in a rocking chair crocheting blankets for dozens of grandkids. She’s terrific at her job. I’ve been accurately called a coldhearted bastard on a number of occasions, but I’m not sure if even I could muster the level of callousness that would be needed to fire her.

“There’s a young lady here to see you, Jake. She doesn’t have an appointment.”

I fucking hate walk-ins. They’re unexpected and unpredictable. They screw up my schedule, and my schedule is sacred.