1 Motor City Shakedown Read Free Page A

mother.
    “I guess I’m just stubborn,” she sighed.
    “I’ve always said that. Since you were a little girl. You get so hard-headed…”
    “I know .”
    “But you’re okay?”
    “I am. I’m fine.”
    “You’re taking your prescription?”
    Issabella looked sidelong at her purse in the client chair. The little orange bottle full of little white pills was inside—the anti-anxiety pills that made her feel dull-witted and sleepy, like a sleepwalker going through the motions of life without really experiencing it.
    “Yes,” she lied, because she didn’t want to have a fight about it.
    “Alright, then. Good. So…did you read about that man who killed a police officer yesterday?”
    “Really? No, I haven‘t heard anything about it.”
    “Y ou really should keep informed.”
    “Alright. I’ll get right on that.”
    “He was a Detroit police officer .”
    “Really?” She had the cell wedged between ear and shoulder now, her hands reaching through the pile of files on her desktop.
    ‘ Time to wrap it up and get to work.’ Her mother would wind herself down on her own if Issabella limited her responses to one word.
    “Well, appa rently, the police came to arrest him and he barricaded himself in his home. That’s when he killed one of the police.”
    “Sad.”
    “It sounds like he was in to all kinds of things. Guns all over the house. That poor man he killed. Can you imagine? I wish you’d think about practicing somewhere else, Bella.”
    Issabella stopped. An idea was forming in her mind. It appeared there without warning, as hard and exact as a cut diamond.
    She stared at the mass of folders she dreaded opening. She saw the weeks ahead—a never-ending flow of those folders arriving on her desk, building up, towering over her, a wall of mind-numbing briefs and hopeless motions, all waiting for her red pen.
    The idea grew brighter in her mind’s eye. The light it radiated pushed back the shadows of her fears and doubts, promising deliverance from them. She didn’t pause to question it.
    “So… he’s still alive?” she said.
    “ No, I told you: the man shot him. He was young, too, with a family.”
    “No, not the cop. The other guy. The shooter. They didn’t kill him?”
    “You shouldn’t say cop. It’s disrespectful—“
    “Hold on a sec, mom."
    Issabella peddled her chair Flintstones-style around her desk. Lying in the chair reserved for clients (a myth, Issabella thought, these ‘clients’ who stroll into law offices and spend large sums of money therein) were her purse, keys, and the day’s edition of the Detroit Free Press . She picked up the folded rectangle of newsprint, snapped it open, and stared at the front page.
    LOCAL MAN KILLS OFFICER IN DEADLY POLICE RAID.
    The idea solidified, and she knew what she was going to do.
    “Holy Shit.”
    “Bella!”
    “Mom, I have to go.”
    “A professional degree is no license for vulgarity, and I don’t--”
    “Love you, mom.”
    S he flicked her phone shut, eyes scanning the contents of the headline’s accompanying article.
    Fifteen minutes later, Issabella Bright had paced the length of her office thirteen times, re-read the lead paragraph of the story twice, sat down and stood up three times, and written a list in pen on the cover of one of the file folders on her desk.
     
    * .
     
    The list read:
    1.           Reviewing documents for others is NOT your
       future.
    2.          This would take a lot of balls.
    3.          Gumption , not balls. Mom’s right about the
               language.
    4.         The worst that can happen is he says no.
    5.          If you pull this off it means real clients and real
       money.
    6.          You won’t have to work across from that
       spooky old building. It looks like a creepy
        stone penis and you need to get out of its
       shadow.
    7.          Stop making lists. You’re just wasting time.
    8.