"I should let you sleep," I say reluctantly. "You've got work in the morning."
"So do you. You've got that inspection tomorrow."
"Yeah. But I'll be thinking about you. Like always."
"Same. I'm always thinking about you. Every minute." He pauses. "Ivan?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For caring enough to fight with me about this. For caring enough to do something even when you knew I'd be angry."
"Always. That's what partners do."
"Partners. I like the sound of that."
"Me too. Goodnight, Jay."
"Goodnight, Ivan."
I hang up and lie back on my bed. Tomorrow, Jay will call Patricia. In two weeks, he'll go to court with proper representation.
And maybe, just maybe, this will work out the way it needs to.
Chapter 40: Jay
Thursday morning, I ask Mick for a couple of hours off. He's under a Softail when I approach, only his scuffed boots visible. I stand there awkwardly, shifting my weight, waiting for him to slide out.
"What?" he asks without moving.
"I need to leave early today. Around two o'clock. I have an appointment I can't miss."
He slides out on his back, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes scan my face. "The legal thing?" he asks bluntly.
"Yeah. I found a lawyer. Well, someone found one for me. I have a consultation this afternoon."
Mick nods slowly. "Take what you need. Come in early a couple of days to make up the hours."
"Thanks, Mick. I really appreciate it."
"Don't thank me. Just get it sorted out. Get your shit handled." He slides back under the bike, conversation over.
When it's time to leave, I clean the grease from under my fingernails as best I can, change into a slightly cleaner shirt I keep in my locker, and head out. Patricia Hendricks' office is on the third floor of a brick building downtown, sandwiched between an insurance agency and a tax preparer's office.
The reception area is small but professional. A woman in her fifties sits behind a desk, typing something on a computer.
"Jay Morrow?" she asks without looking up.
"That's me. I have a two o'clock appointment."
"Ms. Hendricks is expecting you. Go right in through that door."
The inner office is cluttered with files and law books. The shelves are full of leather-bound volumes, stacks of manila folders on every available surface, papers everywhere in organized chaos. Patricia Hendricks stands up from behind her desk when I enter. She's maybe sixty, silver hair cut short and practical, sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She looks like someone who doesn't waste time on bullshit.
"Mr. Morrow. Thank you for coming in. Have a seat." She gestures to a chair across from her desk.
I sit, my palms sweating, trying not to look as nervous as I feel. She sits back down and pulls my file toward her.
"I spoke with your friend Ivan. He gave me the basic facts of the case, but I'd like to hear it from you directly. In your own words. What happened the night of the arrest?"
