By the time I pull into the clinic’s parking area I’ve cycled through approximately fifteen conversation openers and rejected them all.
Going to be a long morning.
The clinic is a converted bungalow painted white. It has concrete walls, and louvered windows currently propped open to catch the breeze. A hand painted sign out front readsEleuthera Legal Access Programin friendly letters that somehow make the whole thing feel more legitimate.
I grab my canvas tote and head inside.
The interior is exactly what you’d expect from a community legal clinic operating on a shoestring budget. There’s mismatched furniture, a single steel desk that looks like it survived multiple hurricanes, and filing cabinets that predate the internet. Everything is clean but worn in that way that says “we make do with what we have.”
A woman in her early fifties stands at the desk organizing files. She’s wearing a bright orange linen dress and her salt and pepper hair is pulled back in a practical bun.
She looks up when I enter and breaks into a warm smile.
“You must be Amara Khan. I’m Marisol de la Cruz.” Her handshake is firm. “Mr. Saelinger said you’d be joining us for the next six weeks. I have to say I’m thrilled. We can use all the help we can get.”
“Happy to be here,” I reply, which is at least sixty percent true.
“He’s already in the back office,” Marisol continues, gesturing toward a doorway. “Getting set up. Let me give you a quick tour first.”
She walks me through the space. She shows me the small conference room where they conduct client meetings, then the storage area filled with boxes of archived case files, and finally the kitchenette with a coffee maker that looks older than I am.
“We serve about forty families right now,” Marisol explains. “Most of them are dealing with land lease agreements that aredeliberately designed to be confusing. Developers banking on people not understanding what they’re signing. Stuff like that.”
My jaw tightens. “How bad are we talking?”
“Unconscionable terms. Automatic renewals with escalating rates. Clauses that let landlords seize property for minor violations.” She shakes her head. “These families have been here for generations. They deserve better.”
“They absolutely do,” I agree. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”
It’s not about the 100k of course.
Not at all.
And certainly not because of a certain hot billionaire...
God, I’m such a liar.
Marisol’s expression softens. “I appreciate that. And I appreciate Mr. Saelinger’s foundation funding this pilot program.”
I nod.
I’m trying my very best to hide the guilt.
“But between you and me?” She continues, lowering her voice. “Originally, I was skeptical when he first approached me. Rich guy from Manhattan wanting to help? Usually that means tax writeoffs and photo ops.”
“But?” I prompt.
“But he’s been nothing but professional. Asks good questions. Doesn’t try to micromanage. Actually seems to care about the work.” She pauses. “You’ve worked with him before I take it?”
Oh you have no idea.
“We have some professional history,” I say carefully. “He knows I specialize in contract review for nonprofits.”
She smiles. “Well you come highly recommended. He spoke very highly of your expertise.”
Something warm and uncomfortable twists in my chest.
Don’t read anything into that.
