But I’d made my peace with the loss of my ambitions to change society and argue Native cases at the Supreme Court. Now I focused on helping people with their legal problems so they could go on with their lives. That’s what I told myself, anyway. After I negotiated plea bargains with the prosecutor, I often saw my former clients back at Las Adelitas or El Metapan, drinking and drugging again. They’d send over a shot, and I’d toast their freedom to pursue the American dream of titanic inebriation.
Yeah, Aurora suited me. This part of the sprawling suburb consisted of modest single-family homes, scores of low-rent apartment buildings that resembled army bunkers, and dozens of Mexican restaurants, bakeries, and markets. Because of my brown skin and black hair, my clients assumed I was Latino, which worked in my favor. Not to mention, in this part of town, there was little chance of running into former law school classmates with their expensive suits and cars. I didn’t have to witness their barely concealed pity as they learned about my downward trajectory from Native social justice warrior to small-time street lawyer.
The directory panel in the hallway stated, LAW FIRM OF GRIFFIN GERMAINE, but it was only me. No receptionist, paralegal, or junior attorneys. The only extravagance in the office complex was a battered old Ricoh copier in the shared common area, for which I paid an extra twenty dollars per month, so long as I didn’t make more than three hundred copies. I used my own ancient Dell laptop, tiny laser printer, and off-brand scanner. A generic K-Cup coffee machine rested on top of some old Pacific Reporters. My diploma from the University of Colorado Law School hung on the wall, encased in a fancy cherrywood frame, a gift from the Native American Law Student Association, of which I’d been president.
I got up and closed the small window, even though it was hot. I needed my full focus for the legal papers that had just arrived on my computer screen. My former DUI client Nestor Vega had been hit by a delivery truck while crossing Havana Street on foot, and the doctor had said he might never walk again. The driver’s insurance company — known among lawyers by its nickname, Snake Farm — had refused to pay his medical bills or any pain and suffering compensation, arguing that he was intoxicated at the time of the accident and therefore responsible for his own expenses. Nestor had called me, asking if I would represent him again, and I’d jumped at the chance to handle a personal injury case.
Even though Colorado tort law was biased in favor of businesses and corporations, Nestor was looking at a million-dollar case, of which I’d collect one-third of the total settlement, more if the case went to trial. If I played my cards the right way, I’d be able to approach Snake Farm with a settlement offer by the end of the year. A payout of that size would mean that I could stop picking up small cases and volunteer for some pro bono work at the Native American Rights Fund. I could hang out at their cool office in Boulder and talk about Indian law again. Maybe even turn that into a full-time position if I did a good job on the pro bono work. Nestor’s case was the break I’d been hoping for.
But Snake Farm’s defense counsel — some meathead named Colt Jackson — was playing hardball, filing ridiculous motions, refusing to provide documents I requested, and not responding to my messages. There were a lot of these types in the legal profession, but this guy was one of the worst. I opened up Nestor’s folder on my computer, then my cell phone started vibrating.
“Germaine Law Office.”
A pause. “Griff, is that you?”
“Yes?” I didn’t recognize the woman’s voice.
“Hey, it’s Louise. From the Zephyr?”
The bartender from the Zephyr Lounge out on Colfax and Peoria. The place where I’d drowned many sorrows when I’d first moved to Aurora a decade ago. Louise had been in her thirties, tall with light-brown hair, porcelain-white skin, and a vintage thrift store sense of style. I remembered that she wore cool cat’s-eye glasses and a faux fur coat that looked like a leopard. She’d been kind to me, spotting me drinks when I didn’t have any cash. We’d even had a few sodden flings after some of her shifts. But there was never any weirdness between us. I’d moved my drinking down the street and lost touch with her.
“Louise, wow. Long time. How you been doing?”
“Well, you know, I’ve been better. But hey, I’m glad I found your number. I still had your card in my purse. It was buried at the bottom.”
Story of my life. “You still at the Zephyr?”
“Yeah,” she said, “but it’s not going so well. Ever since the med school opened, people don’t want to drink there. I got my regulars, but they’re dying off.”
The University of Colorado had moved its medical school to the old Fitzsimons Army Hospital facility awhile back, ensuring that a horde of doctors, medical students, and college administrators were just a couple of blocks from the Zephyr. But those folks weren’t interested in the bar’s 1970s art collection and dicey clientele. I felt guilty that I hadn’t been there in so long.
“Sorry to hear that. I’ll stop by soon, promise.”
She cleared her throat. “Actually, I was wondering if I could come by and see you.”
“What’s up?” I suspected she was gearing up to ask for money, but this well was dry. Bone dry.
“Well, I’ve got a divorce thing. So, do you still have your law degree or whatever? I mean, you’re a lawyer, right? Not selling cars or mowing lawns.”
This stung. “Sure am. What’s going on?”
Another pause. “It’s kind of embarrassing, but my ex-husband stopped paying his child support. For my daughter, Lily?”
I’d forgotten she had a daughter. I’d seen her once or twice at the bar, back in the day. A quiet little girl, sitting in one of the booths. She’d have to be a teenager by now. “Lily, right. Does he send the child support to the state office or to you directly?”
“Well, he’s supposed to send it to me. But I haven’t gotten a check in nine months, and I can’t reach him. You know, tips are really down right now, and I can’t make it without that money.”
I’d heard this story too many times. Child support in Colorado was usually not disputed, as it was determined by a formula based on the parents’ incomes and number of overnight stays. But the flaw in the system was collecting the money from those who were determined to dodge making their payments. A truly stubborn asshole could sometimes beat the system.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “I’m guessing you need some help.”
“God, yes. We’re about two months from being evicted, and that bastard won’t pay what he owes for his own kid. I can’t even afford Internet service anymore — Lily is going crazy.” Her voice was beginning to crack.
“Look,” I said, “why don’t you come to my office tomorrow and we can talk this over. I’m free in the morning; maybe ten a.m.? Bring all of the divorce paperwork you have.”
“Yes, absolutely! I can make that. Lily will be in school and I don’t work until two. Thank you, Griff. You’re a good guy.”
A good guy. It had been a long time since anyone had said that to me. Maybe things were changing.
The next morning, I put on my best tie and blazer and got to my office early. I threw out all of the trash, straightened the file folders on my desk, ran a dusting cloth over the books, and made sure the window was tightly closed to keep out the stink. Not perfect, but presentable.
Then I checked my email and E-filing account, hoping I’d gotten a response from opposing counsel in Nestor’s case. I’d requested the defendant’s insurance policy, but Colt had refused to produce it, even though this was standard procedure. I knew he was just playing games, trying to delay the case from moving forward so that Nestor would be willing to settle at a lower amount. My inbox was empty, so I decided to give Colt Jackson a call.