Dallas, Texas
2009
CASEY JORDAN CHECKED her watch before hitting the curb, which sent a shudder through the battered Mercedes sedan. Her tires skidded on the grit as she rounded the corner of the old cinder-block gas station. She could hear the knocking of the engine all the way to the back door of her law clinic, remembering the day when the car had smelled of fine leather, not sour carpet and coffee.
Before she reached the rear entrance, the gray metal bathroom door swung open and a Latino woman emerged with a small child trailing a streamer of toilet paper. The woman said something in Spanish, and Casey offered a smile but shrugged, pointed to her watch, and hurried inside her office through the back door.
Stacy Berg, the office manager, appeared with a cup of coffee, a frown, and piercing dark eyes set in a mane of light brown hair thick as yarn. “Forget something?”
“I made some notes on the Suarez file I need for Nancy Grace,” Casey said.
“You know she’s half crazy?” Stacy asked and nodded toward her desk, which was really the old counter where the filling station had kept its cash register. “Speaking of that, Rosalita Suarez’s mother dropped off a chocolate icebox cake to celebrate your victory.”
Casey had exonerated Rosalita Suarez in a highly publicized murder trial on a charge of shooting the coyote who brought her across the border after he tried to rape her.
“And that guy called again,” Stacy said. “It’s in the middle of the pile.”
“What guy?” Casey asked.
Stacy rolled her eyes. “You know. That billionaire guy. How many billionaires do you know?”
“In Dallas?” Casey said. “Too many. Why don’t you call him back?”
“You think I care about money?” Stacy asked, raising her eyebrows and snorting. “I work here purely for the glamour.”
“I know,” Casey said, “you like the excitement, too.”
Stacy frowned. “I thought we help people?”
“I’m the woman to call if you shoot someone in the nuts,” Casey said. “What did he say?”
“Who?”
“Mr. Billionaire.”
“He wants to have dinner with you,” Stacy said. “I told him you’ve got to do Nancy Grace’s show, then you’ve already got dinner plans. I asked him if he’d like me to schedule something, trying to give him the hint that you’re busy, too, and don’t just drop everything because some billionaire’s got an itch.”
“The Freedom Project isn’t an ‘itch,’ ” Casey said. “It’s a foundation. And Robert Graham isn’t just some billionaire. He’s a philanthropist.”
“Did you know the angle behind all these rich people’s foundations is a bunch of tax write-offs and bullshit?” Stacy asked. “They like to ease their minds with cocktail parties and fund-raisers. Those Timberland boots and flannel shirts don’t fool me. He keeps a gold rod up his ass.”
Casey sighed and shook her head. “Call Mr. Graham back and tell him I’ll change my plans and ask him where he wants to meet.”
“You’re meeting José at Nick and Sam’s at eight,” Stacy said.
José O’Brien was an ex-cop who did most of the clinic’s investigative work. He had also been Casey’s on-and-off boyfriend. Right now, he was off after falling off the wagon once again.
“Apologize to José for me, will you?” Casey said.
“He’s a good guy, you know.”
“I know.”
“But you’re still mad.”
“I’m not mad,” Casey said. “He needs to pull it together and I don’t have time to play Mama.”
“That’s harsh.”
“Sometimes harsh is good.”
“Sorry,” Stacy said, pausing, “to pry.”
“Listen, Robert Graham is talking about a million dollars a year in funding if I agree to take on a couple high-profile cases for the Freedom Project,” Casey said. “Shouldn’t I find that the least bit appealing?”
Stacy nodded abruptly at that news, picked up the phone, and said, “I’ll tell Mr. Graham your schedule has opened up.”