Page 52 of Precise Justice

“Yeah,” Marc said while he continued reading.

“Since she’s not your client, why did they send this along?” Connie asked.

“Robbie’s a minor. Priscilla is claiming I have harassed him, overcharged her, tried to convince Robbie to sue her and the doctors and a bunch of minor stuff. Those amount to, oh, here it is, violating the client’s wishes during my alleged representation.

“They scheduled a hearing. One month from today. You want to see it?”

“Sure,” Connie said.

Marc handed it to her across his desk.

Connie said, “I’ll call Hyman Seymour, my ethics professor friend.”

“You didn’t break up his marriage, did you?”

“No, a twenty-four year old shiksa student tried that. He got her a federal appeals court clerk’s job with the First Circuit in Boston. The price he paid for keeping his marriage,” Connie said. “In fact, Leah and I are good friends. I’ll have her kick his ass and get on this.”

“I have clients convicted of murder who don’t complain as much as this. Robbie’s lovely mother…”

“Thinks she’s in charge,” Connie finished for him. “I’ll call Leah now, then Hyman.”

“You want a copy of this for Professor Seymour?” Marc asked.

“Sure, scan it and send it to me,” Connie replied.

“Um, yeah, okay, I’ll have Jeff get right on that,” Marc said. Being a little helpless with technology, Marc would have the office paralegal scan it.

“You know there are times when I’m surprised you’re not living with your mother,” Connie said.

“She wouldn’t let me move back.”

“Good for her,” Connie laughed.

TWENTY-ONE

Dear Diary:October 11th

I am beginning to understand what it is like to be held in prison. One with walls and steel bars or, one like mine. There are no bars on the windows, but some locks are invisible and just as strong.

Ever since my attempt at suicide, my helicopter mother has gotten worse. She feels guilty, I think. If she does, it is the first time I can think of where she has shown any interest in anyone other than herself.

I don’t know how, but someone will have found out about my suicide attempt. I’m not sure I care. They will also know about my gender dysphoria surgery. I must admit, I’m more than a little interested to find out how they react to that.

Worse than school starting, which I don’t care about, Marc’s hearing is this Thursday. I am really worried about this. I caused it, he did not. Mother Dear won’t listen. She knows it’s not his fault; he did nothing wrong. But she is being a vindictive bitch (I looked the word vindictive up, Dear Diary, because that is who she is.)

Mother Dear has absolutely forbidden me from testifying. I don’t know what to do.

“Marc, we’ll be fine. I told you; I can’t remember how many of these hearings I’ve done. On both sides and in the middle. Yours is a pretty flimsy complaint.”

The three of them, Marc, Professor Seymour and Connie Mickelson, were in a conference room. Connie came along because she had, at one time, a brief, but intimate relationship with one of the hearing’s officers. He was married at the time. Connie swears she broke it off as soon as she found out. It was Connie’s plan to help Marc by spending the entire time during the hearing staring at him as a reminder.

“Easy for you to say, it’s not your license on the line,” Marc said.

There was a knock on the door. A deputy sheriff stuck her head in to let them know it was time.

In the hall walking toward the same hearing room was Priscilla and a woman with a briefcase. Seeing Priscilla, Marc almost sprinted to the door to open it for them.

“Good morning, Priscilla,” Marc said as she walked past.