I look up and see the worry that washes over his expression. Here's an almost eighty-year-old man who gave the majority of his savings to a high profile investment advisor who is now facing felony charges. He's looking at me as if I'm holding every answer to his financial future. In many ways, I am. Why the fuck did I even take on this case? Trying to juggle his concerns, with the opposing counsel's constant refusal to discuss a settlement is wearing on me.
"Mr. Wilkinson." I lean back in my office chair, hoping he'll follow suit. I'd feel so much better if he had more faith in me. He sought me out on the advice of the attorney who handled his late wife's estate. My friend, Garrett Ryan, steered Mr. Wilkinson in my direction with a warning. Garrett told me to get this right. He painted a picture of how broken Mr. Wilkinson had been after his wife's death a year ago. He was vulnerable and had fallen into the palm of an investment advisor who is now sitting in a small jail cell awaiting trial on a long list of security related charges.
"How much?" he spits the question back with a tap on the edge of my desk. "I need to know how much. My granddaughter and her kids are moving in with me next week. She left her bastard of a cheating husband. I've got a lot of mouths to feed."
Way to add another brick to the guilt load I'm already carrying on my shoulders, Mr. Wilkinson. "I'm doing my best." I am. I spend almost all my time awake thinking about this case.
"Do you have kids, Mr. Moore?"
I look up from my desk at his face. "I don't." I already know where this conversation is headed, and I'm considering diving under my desk to avoid the head on collision that is coming my way.
"My wife and I worked our entire lives to save money," he begins. "When she died, God rest her soul, I wanted to give more to my granddaughters."
I nod. He's told me this story several times since I took on his case, three weeks ago. Each time, since the first, I'm tempted to tell him that I've heard it. I suspect he knows he's repeating but he wants to share. It helps him. I can see it and hear it.
/> "I gave Anthony that money so he could make more money for me." He shakes his head as if he's warding off all thoughts of Anthony Mercado, the man he trusted his financial empire with. "He was kind, he was nice to me, he said he understood what I was feeling after Nancy died." His bottom lip trembles at the mention of his late wife's name.
I've heard enough stories about her to understand that she was a sweet loving and very devoted wife. The first time he spoke about her I thought about Jessica and what it would feel like if I lost her. I doubt like fucking hell that I would be able to make any rational decisions either. Anthony Mercado set his sights on Phil Wilkinson the month after his wife died. This guy wasn't an ambulance chaser. He was a fucking hearse chaser.
I take in a deep breath. "I can't imagine how hard it was to lose her." I must have said that same phrase to him a dozen or more times since I met him. Each time I say it holds more and more meaning.
"I feel like an idiot. I wanted to give my granddaughters a chance in life. They're both in broken marriages, they have children, and they need my help." He wrings his hands together. "Nancy and I were going to build a big house with the money from the investments. The girls and their kids were going to live with us. You have to get that back for me."
I push my hands against my desk, slowly pulling myself up. He's right. I have to do something. I can't let that asshole get away with this. "Leave it to me, Mr. Wilkinson. You picked the right man for the job." The words sound believable, now I just have to make them come true.
Chapter 7
"Did it go okay at the office today?" Jessica asks, as she picks at the vegetable ragout she made for the two of us for dinner.
I take a heavy mouthful of food and chew it slowly. I feel spent. After my meeting with Mr. Wilkinson, I had gone down to the bar down the street from my office. Two glasses of bourbon later and I still feel like shit. I know she's waiting to talk about what's bothering me." It was fine," I say before shoveling another forkful of food into my mouth.
She moves the food around on her plate. I've only seen her take a small bite. "I know you're under a lot of stress. I know your job isn't easy."
The words are meant to pacify me. She's not that interested in my job. It's not her fault. When we first got together she asked me a lot of questions about what I do for a living. Back then, I only was interested in one thing. I wanted to fuck and that was it. I hate that I didn't give her more of myself in the beginning. "It's just a tough case. There's a lot of pressure."
She picks up her glass of red wine and only takes a very small sip before she places it back down. "I know you can't talk about it. There's that whole lawyer and client confidentiality thing."
I nod. She's right. I can't give her the specifics. I can talk in generalities though. "My client lost everything. He lost his wife and his life savings almost at the same time."
She pulls her hand up to her chest as if she's warding off something that might touch her heart. "That's horrible, Nathan. Were they married a long time?"
I swallow what's left in my own wine glass. "They were married for fifty-four years."
She lets out a little gasp as if there's not enough air in the room." That's so long. They must have gotten married very young."
I don't want the words to bother me but they do. I'm thirty-two years old. I want to be married and I want to be a father. I want all of that with Jessica and I want it now. "He told me that he can't remember what it was like before he married her."
Her bottom lip trembles as if the words have cut right to her core. "That's beautiful. That's true love."
I push on, not to explain more about my client but to touch that part of her. I want her to be open and vulnerable. I want her to take inspiration from a love that is that deep and enduring. "The first day that I met him, he told me something."
She leans forward on the table, her elbows resting on either side of her plate. "What was it? What did he say?"
I mimic her stance and cover her hands with mine. I look straight into her beautiful blue eyes as I say, "he told me he was the luckiest. He said every day before he gets out of bed he thinks about her and how lucky he is to love her."
She looks down at our hands. "You mean how lucky he was to love her. I mean before she..."
"Died?" I interrupt. "No that's not what I mean."