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“Sorry, can you runthrough it again for me so that I 100% understand what we’re being asked for?” I was leaning against the side of the huge, mahogany desk that took up the center of Marcus’s office which—by the way—was almost twice as big as mine. Marcus had told me that as soon as I could keep my office tidy, then I could get a bigger office...and let’s just say that I wasn’t going to be moving any time soon. My office was a constant tornado of file folders and old coffee cups from the coffee cart in the lobby. So here I stood, in an office that was bigger than mine, in jeans and a t-shirt because I would be damned if I put on heels on a Saturday.
Marcus turned his laptop, where he’d uploaded the file for Hezekiah Jordan, towards me and I was greeted by Hezekiah Jordan’s prison mugshot. “Hezekiah Jordan is up for parole after eight years for ‘good behavior’. He is also, apparently, looking for new representation for his upcoming parole hearing.”
I snorted, “Yeah. As if that’s going to happen.” We shared a knowing look. There was no way Whitlock & Simmons would ever represent Hezekiah Jordan. Theo would leave me if I ever even tried to consider it; which made complete sense, he’d been more up close and personal with the Jordan case than any of us.
“I agree. I wouldn’t touch this case with a ten-foot pole, but if we were sent this file, then it makes sense to assume that every law office in the city would have gotten it as well. The notoriety of the case alone is enough to entice some of the seedier lawyers in the city.”
“I wonder why he’s looking for new representation now...” I worked my bottom lip with my teeth, as I mulled over the question. Why would Hezekiah Jordan seek new representation for a parole hearing? With a gasp, the answer came to me: “Unless....”
“He’s trying to get a retrial.” Marcus leaned back in his seat with a sigh, raking his fingers through his salt and pepper hair, letting the strands stick up straight from his head.
“There is no way it would be granted. He’s tried three times in the last eight years.” The chances that this man would be granted a retrial were slim. That was, unless something had gone seriously wrong during the original trial. I was still a fledgling lawyer at the time, so stressed out with my small fry cases that I hadn’t watched the trial very closely.
“I don’t know but, Aria, I’ve got a sinking feeling that shit is about to hit the fan. You’re probably going to want to give Theo a heads up. I’ve already let Adair know so he can get out in front of this.”
Marcus’s packmate was Adair Carter, a former U.S Congressman who was about to put his bid in for the gubernatorial elections which were only a year and a half away. If Marcus thought that Adair needed to get in front of this...then there was a good chance that shit reallywasgoing to hit the fan and I needed to talk to Theo.
I left the office, my fingers already flying across my phone keyboard as I sent a text to Theo, but before I could send a text, my news app pinged with the headline:
‘RETRIAL GRANTED FOR FORMER CULT LEADER HEZEKIAH JORDAN.’
Shit.
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After a longer thanusual session with Gary, I headed back to my room to change from my post-heat clothes into a black dress and leggings. I’d taken a page out of Ellie’s book and enrolled in an online cooking class to fill my time while I wasted away at the academy. It definitely pushed me out of my comfort zone. Each class highlighted a dish from a different country and this week was Portugal. I needed to drop the list of ingredients that I would need for the class off at the front desk and check my mail. After thosearduoustasks, I definitely earned an extra-large iced coffee.
The front desk sat in front of the elevators and it was a curved piece of furniture that could fit up to three assistants at a time. If any of the omegas needed anything they had to submit the request here and hope and pray that the academy overlords approved your order.
Stepping up to the desk I pasted a friendly smile on my face and handed my order form to the stone-faced assistant sitting behind the desk. Amber was a middle-aged blonde woman who’d worked at the academy for as long as I could remember. It was weird to see her here on a Saturday since she usually only worked weekdays. A much friendlier assistant named Camille usually worked on the weekend and was infinitely easier to deal with.
“Hello, Amber, a beautiful day outside right?” Not that I’d been outside yet today. But it looked pretty clear to me. I was pretty sure that my friendly smile looked a little bit insane because my heat pheromones were still a little whack-a-doodle, giving my skin a flushed look. “Can you put this order in for me? I need it for my class this week.”
Amber looked from my face to the paper in my hand and, for a moment, I was pretty sure that she was going to say no. But finally, she sighed and took the paper, “You need to make sure to get these submitted at least three weeks in advance, Tibby. Those are the rules.” She tapped the sign on the desk that said as much.
“I will definitely get it in on time next time, thank youuuu. Oh! By the way, where’s Camille at? She’s usually at the desk on the weekends.” Which was exactly why I waited until Saturdays to submit my order request forms.
“Out with the flu. Half the staff caught it. Can you go now? I’ve got work to do.” She waved her hand in a shooing motion and rather than stay and torture her further, I moved on and walked into the coffee shop. It was already busy with omegas ordering coffee or working on their classwork together at the various tables that were spread out in the cafe.
Before ordering my coffee, I headed to the mailroom which was tucked into the corner of the coffee shop. Once at the window, I playfully drummed on the counter to get the mailman, Stan’s, attention.
“Stan my man, mama needs her package.” I hollered into the room and waited for the grizzled, old mailman to come into view and tell me to hold my horses. But Stan was not the person who popped up in the window. Instead, it was a frazzled-looking twenty-something covered in shipping labels and packing peanuts who was standing on the other side of the counter. Judging by the harried expression on his face, he was about thirty seconds away from quitting his job and becoming a stripper
“Stan get the flu?” I asked and made a mental note to start carrying around hand sanitizer. I was an absolute baby when I got sick and Eloise wasn’t here to take care of me anymore.Ouch. Again, hot stove thought, Tibby. Eloise has moved onto better pastures with her herd of er...stallions.
The unknown mailman, completely oblivious to my inner monologue, pulled a label off of his shirt and stuck it to the edge of the counter. He glared at it as if it had killed his firstborn before he began to pluck the others off of his shirt with the ferocity of someone who had truly been wronged.
“Stan’s got the flu and so does everyone else that works at this damn school. I’m an assistant for crying out loud, I’ve never worked in the mailroom before. But they said: ‘Allan, it will be fine. It’s easy!’ Easy my ass.” The man, Allan, sucked in a deep, calming breath and finally looked up at me, “What’s your name?”
“Tibby Sinclair.” I slid my ID across the counter but he didn’t even look at it. Instead, he turned to the wall of cubbies that were organized alphabetically by last name. It took him a few minutes of scanning the names before finding what he was looking for.
“Tabitha Sinclair?”
