She eased the door open with her foot and cautiously poked her head inside.
The intruder was so intent on her task, she never even looked up. She was seated with her bare feet propped up on the receptionist’s deck, her head bobbing, singing along with the radio. “Play it again, play it again, play it again,” she repeated, drumming the desktop for emphasis.
Brooke reached down and tapped the wireless speaker sitting atop the file cabinet.
The girl, startled, jerked upright.
“Jesus, Brooke!” she exclaimed, reaching for the bottle of nail polish she’d been applying to her toenails. “You scared the shit out of me!”
“And you almost gave me a heart attack when I drove up and heard that music and saw the door standing open,” Brooke said. She held up the can of Mace. “You’re lucky I didn’t spray first and ask questions later.”
“What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were supposed to go seeBrittni in the jailhouse this morning,” Farrah said, glancing at the clock that hung over the office’s sole bank of file cabinets.
“And I thought you were supposed to be in second-period English.”
Farrah Miles was a high school senior who also doubled as Henry’s babysitter. Brooke and Farrah had met in September after Brooke had given a career-day talk about law at the local high school. Most of the teenagers had napped or stared at their phones during her talk. But the next day, Farrah, a petite blonde with a tiny gold nostril stud, blue-green streaks in her hair, and a penchant for cowboy boots and supershort cutoff jeans, showed up at her office and proclaimed herself interested in the law and a job.
The girl was smart and efficient—when she wanted to be—so they’d struck a deal that Farrah would work five days a week after school and pinch-hit as a babysitter for three-year-old Henry, as needed.
Farrah sat down and resumed her pedicure, dabbing a bit of purple polish on her big toenail. “Mr. Barnhart’s a prick. We’ve only got two more weeks of class before graduation, and I’ve already got a solid A, but he still won’t exempt me from taking the final exam like my other teachers.”
“So you’re cutting class? Farrah, he could still flunk you. I thought we talked about this. You’ve got to keep your grades up if you want to get into Georgia.”
The girl scowled. “They wait-listed me, Brooke. I’m not gonna get in. I’ll just go to Community College like everybody else. It’s no biggie.”
Brooke rolled her desk chair over to Farrah’s desk and sat inches away from her. The girl lowered her head, pretending to concentrate on her toes. Brooke reached out and tilted Farrah’s chin, lifting it until they were eye to eye.
“Listen to me, Farrah Michele Miles. You still have a really good chance. You aced your SATs and your ACTs. You’ve got a solid 3.9 grade point average in mostly advanced placement classes, and plenty of extracurricular activities. You wrote amazing essays, and your teachers wrote you great recommendation letters. Do not screw this up. Please?”
“I’m not screwing anything up.” Farrah changed the subject. “So what happened this morning with Brittni?”
“I went over to the jail. Her stepfather still won’t post bail, and her court date’s not ’til next week, so there’s not much I could say except hang tight and try not to get in any more fights.”
Farrah shook her head. “I know she’s my cousin, but she is such a dumb bitch. She shoulda just paid the ninety-nine cents for the damn cup of ice. It’s not like she was broke!”
“I told her the same thing,” Brooke said, “but she says the KwikMart cashier was some kind of high school frenemy who thinks Brittni stole her boyfriend.”
“Right. That’s Kelsy Cotterell, and she hates Britt because she totes did steal Kelsy’s boyfriend. And also because Brittni had his name tattooed right across her chest, which is not even hot, despite that boob job of hers,” Farrah said. “She thinks because she used to be a cheerleader the whole world owes her something. Mama says she gets that and her lard butt from Aunt Charla.”
Brooke pressed her lips together to keep from laughing at Farrah’s dead-on assessment of her client and her client’s mother. “Okay. Enough about Brittni. As long as you’re here, you might as well get some work done. I need you to go online and do some research. See what you can find out aboutState of Georgia v. Josephine Warrick. Print out what you get and start a file.”
“Josephine Warrick? Is that the old lady who owns Talisa? What’s up with her?”
“She called me yesterday, wouldn’t say what it’s about. Just that she wants to see me about an unspecified legal matter. I’m headed over there in a few minutes.”
“Awesome. A new client. So that’s why you’re all dressed up today. You look nice, by the way.”
“Thanks,” Brooke said. “I kinda like that nail polish of yours too. What’s it called?”
“Violet Femmes,” Farrah said. She held up the bottle. “Want a hit?”
“No, thanks. I’ll stay with my Bubble Bath. Gotta look conservative in my line of business.”
Shunning her usual casual office attire, Brooke had reached to the back ofher closet and brought out an expensive tailored navy pantsuit, which she wore with a white silk shell, pearl earrings, and a pair of black lizard-skin Tod’s loafers, throwbacks from her Savannah wardrobe, which rarely saw the light of day in St. Ann’s.
“That old lady’s, like, filthy rich, you know,” Farrah said.
“I doubt that she’ll end up hiring me. I don’t practice the kind of law it sounds like she needs.”
