Page 1 of Too Good to Be True

Rowan

W hen I see Paul walk into my office with a folder under his arm, a coffee and a paper bag, I know this day will not go as smoothly as planned.

“What do you need?” I ask him as he sets the coffee down on my desk.

“Always so suspicious?” Paul retorts, his tone laced with sarcasm as he pushes the paper bag towards me.

“I can count the times you showed up with something to offer on the fingers of one hand.”

“That’s not true.”

“And when you do, it’s only because you’re trying to get something in return, but I’m warning you, a coffee and…” I take the bag and open it. “A multigrain muffin. That won’t get you far.”

Paul laughs, then leans back in his chair and slowly adjusts his tie, a sign that he is thinking about how to handle this.

“At least last time you turned up with two tickets for the Six Nations final.”

“Well, I was short of time and had to make do. So I figured my best friend and the most reliable colleague one could ask for might just be easily corruptible this once.”

“I am not corruptible.”

“You know what I mean.”

“And you know not to use that word in my presence.”

Paul is still laughing. My tone or my threats do not intimidate him. He has a face that you never want to stop punching and the smile of someone who is always okay, even when he messes up because his best friend is there to fix it.

We’ve been friends since we were kids. I owe him everything. That’s why I work with him, and I’ve put up with his face and nonsense for twenty years.

Paul was my only friend for a long time—maybe he still is. When I was a puny, scared little boy, he took me under his wing, defended me, and protected me until I could do it myself.

Some things you never forget.

I sip my coffee and lean back in the chair, waiting for Paul to decide whether to speak.

“You know we take on cases from time to time… How do you say…”

“Desperate?”

“Just like that. I think I have one that suits us.”

“By ‘us’, do you mean ‘me’?”

I roll my eyes before taking my muffin out of the bag. This morning, I only had a smoothie after my usual morning workout. I wasn’t planning on eating anything until lunch, but I think the hot potato Paul’s about to drop on yours truly deserves a break.

“What’s it about?” I take a bite of the muffin and chew slowly.

“Child custody.”

“Mmm…” Now I understand the need for the muffin.

“A sensitive case.”

I take another bite, then more coffee. I usually avoid cases involving minors like the plague. And Paul knows that. And he also knows not to bring them to my desk, except in the most exceptional cases.

“If it’s a difficult divorce…”

“No divorce.” He slides the folder across my desk. “It’s about a single father.”

I pick up the folder.

“His brother and his wife passed away, leaving him with his three niblings. A terrible accident. She died in the ambulance. He died in the hospital a few hours later.”

I let my eyes wander over the words, not wanting to let the cramp in my stomach return and remind me why I only take on such cases when absolutely necessary.

“Their parents have entrusted the kids to their uncle, but their maternal grandmother has recently come forward.”

I look at Paul over my glasses.

“She thinks our potential client is unsuitable.”

I take off my glasses and throw them on the documents, which are now on my desk.

“Spit it out, Paul.”

“Well, he’s…”

“What?”

“He’s gay.”

“I see.” I shake my head gently. “Are you putting me on this case just because I’m bisexual?”

“Yes.”

“You suck. Seriously. You suck as a friend, and you suck as a partner.”

“This kind of case helps our image, and you know how much we need it.”

Unfortunately for me, Paul is right.

Paul and I worked together for several years in a large law firm in the city.

We paid our dues like everyone else. We did research, stakeouts, document deliveries, and even made coffee—anything to earn a place at the partners’ table one day.

We dealt with nasty cases, clients we didn’t like, real bastards.

And we were okay with that. In the end, we were trying to make a name for ourselves in a world of sharks until ‘the case’ came into Paul’s hands, the one that forces you to decide whether you are one of those willing to sell your soul to the highest bidder, or whether you still have a shred of conscience left in you.

Paul didn’t have to think much about it, and I, to be honest, even less. He left the firm, and I followed him. The fact that we had put hidden evidence in the hands of opposing lawyers that would have helped the case move in the right direction did not help our careers.

They totally burned everything around us. We could not have expected anything else. But it helped us. It helped us realise that what we were doing was not our destiny.

“May I?” George, our secretary, peeps into my office. “The client is waiting for you,” he says, addressing me.

I look at Paul.

“We need this case,” he insists as if that alone justifies his ambush. Then he turns to George. “Inform him that Mr Kennedy will be joining him shortly.”

George nods, then leaves us alone.

I stand and walk towards the glass, peering into the waiting room. I glance at my ‘new’ client, then turn to my friend. “Do I have to?”

Paul also approaches the glass. “What’s wrong with him?”

“You mean, what’s right with him…” I huff. Fingers massage my eyelids, hoping to nip this new stress wave in the bud. “How many niblings did you say he has?”

“Three.”

I snort again. “You know very well I don’t like children.”

Paul puts his hand on my arm. “And you know I can’t stand your arms. God, what is it, iron?”

I look at him sideways.

“You’ve got to do something, really. I can’t even touch you.”

“I could send you to hell. With the help of these arms.”

Paul does not stop touching them, testing their strength.

“Could you please stop?”

He raises his arms and steps back, then straightens his tie. “Shall we go meet our client?”

“Tell me he’s at least paying, please.”

“Uh…”

“Paul!” I say between my teeth. I don’t want to shout and attract our new client’s attention.

“You know we get a pro bono from time to time, for tax, image…”

“I hate you.”

“That’s not true.”

The client glances unconsciously in our direction, making us both sit up straight and forcing us to end our conversation and join him in the waiting room. I adjust my tie as I walk down the corridor, followed by Paul and his slapping face, then stop in front of him and clear my throat.

“Mr…”

“Graham,” Paul suggests.

“Mr Graham, I’m Mr Kennedy.” I hold out my hand. He takes it.

A weak, distracted grip. A sweaty hand.

We are not doing well at all.

“Seth, please. Just Seth. When I hear Mr Graham, I immediately think of my father, and that’s certainly not a pleasant thought.”

“Mr Graham,” I repeat, to clarify that point one, we are not in confidence; point two, we will not become friends; point three, he should not speak unless asked; point four, we will get nowhere with this attitude. “I will look into your case.”

“Look into it?” He asks hesitantly.

The person with him stands up immediately and puts a hand on his shoulder.

“That’s what I said. Before I decide whether to accept the case.”

“Oh, sure… I understand.”

“If you want to follow me to my office,” I point down the corridor. “Alone,” I specify in a peremptory tone.

“I’ll wait for you here, don’t worry,” the other says, encouraging him.

“I’ll leave you then,” Paul announces before disappearing, not without getting another dirty look from yours truly.

“Why don’t we…” I point again at my office, arm outstretched, hand open.

He walks ahead of me into my office, turning to face me as I close the door behind me. I give him a quick look as I walk around the desk to sit down.

It only takes a few seconds for me to realise that we don’t stand a chance.

Apart from his helpless puppy-dog look, his submissive and uncertain manner, his insecure walk, his hunched posture, his nervous hands now sliding down his jeans, not to mention the last night’s make-up, which he had obviously not completely removed before going to bed, the fact remains that he is single, gay, broke and certainly in a precarious job or worse, of dubious morals.

At the same time, the other party is a wealthy lady representing a good family with a large and comfortable house, a bevvy of lawyers ready to tear us to shreds, and probably a bevvy of witnesses prepared to refute our every argument.

“Mr Graham,” I signal him to sit down as I settle into my chair. “Why would I agree to be your lawyer?”

“Oh. Well… my friend Ross, whom you just met,” he points behind his back, “suggested this firm. A client of the nightclub where he works recommended it to him, and…”

“Mr Graham,” I stop him before he gets any further.

“Yes?”

“I didn’t ask you how you got our name, and you really shouldn’t talk in bursts like you have no filter.”

“I’m sorry, I’m nervous, and when I’m nervous, I talk.”

“I asked you why I should take your case.”

His eyes slowly fill with tears.

“I’m desperate to lose my kids. I can’t imagine having to say goodbye to them.

I’d do anything to make them happy. Even let them go.

And if I knew that Shonda would love them as much as Mark and Jillian and raise them with their values and the same love…

If I was sure that living with her was the best solution, I swear I wouldn’t fight it. ”

And it only takes me a few seconds to understand a person.

“No one can love those children more than Mark and Jillian, but I…” He touches his chest, and at the exact moment, something happens in mine. “I’m getting very close.”