Justice Hunter by Harper Dimmerman Read Free Book Online Page B

worst-case scenario for Whitman was that Hunter would drop the ball, and appeals would be taken, which meant even heftier fees, leaving the firm with a tolerable amount of egg on its face. Mancini certainly had a penchant for persuasion. He would easily smooth things over and get things back to the status quo.
    The firm would never give credence to the claim that Hunter had even been in the running for partner, and his status as a lifelong associate would be immortalized throughout the legal community. He’d always have a little untouchable in him—just enough for the firm’s top brass to push him out and find him a painfully dull in-house position with one of its corporate clients. There were close to sixteen thousand lawyers in the city, and there was no reason that number wouldn’t continue to rise precipitously. So the blue-chip firms had to make room for the incoming class of impressionable and unsuspecting associates, only to begin the cycle anew. These were the seasons of associate life at the monolithic firms. And losing a partnership bid was the same as an associate’s eternal Fargo winter.
    On the continuum of shitty assignments, there was probably nothing worse than a last-minute Friday afternoon mission impossible. To add insult to injury, the case involved a major client of the firm plus an area of law Hunter knew virtually nothing about. And then, of course, there was the supposedly inconsequential “public relations snafu.” Maybe the case is a dog. Why did Mancini bring it to me? Frankly, it seemed like a case better suited for a partner, someone more well-versed in the art of media diplomacy, which Hunter certainly was not. Hunter figured none of that really mattered now. The case was all his, and he had to learn the law in record speed. It was hard enough putting together a case in a month, even when you knew the lay of the land. There was no way around it. He was so royally fucked. A loss would guarantee he wouldn’t get a partnership nod.
    “I have faith in you.” Mancini’s voice was barely audible as Hunter exited the cavernous office.
    Hunter knew losing wasn’t an option. And so did Mancini. That’s obviously what he meant by faith. Mancini didn’t strike Hunter as a man of God. “Thanks.” Thanks for the fait accompli. This thing was over before it even began.
    That’s all there was to it. Case file in tow, all three redwells of it, Hunter pressed the elevator button, all too aware of the fact that the next week would be life altering. By next Thursday, he’d know whether there had ever been a purpose behind the last seven years of his associate existence.

N INE
     
    T here was only one remedy for Hunter’s Friday afternoon jitters. Prescription drugs such as SSRIs were no match for the peaks and valleys of litigation, not to mention the stress associated with a drug addict sister and a widow for a mother poised to die slowly of a broken heart. Alone.
    He stood in front of the huge L-shaped bar at The Blarney Stone, downing a pint of Yuengling beer. The Blarney, a potpourri of furniture and curios from Irish castles and cathedrals, Celtic textiles, and rich, dark wood, wasn’t Hunter’s favorite watering hole in town. In truth, it really wasn’t much of a watering hole at all, just the quintessential yuppie restaurant bar disguised as a commoner’s Irish tavern for the lawyers, bankers, Marlboro-light-smoking doctors, and Ivy League professor types. In Hunter’s eyes, the only redeeming thing about the place was that it was a stone’s throw from the office. Other than that, though, it was overpriced, which naturally meant that Dillon Wright loved the place. Expensive drinks meant attractive and impressionable women. And as for Andy Smith—well, he was the only guy Hunter knew who actually honored his marital vows.
    “You’ve got to give Briere his props, though, dude,” said Andy, the perpetual optimist. His voice was tinged with the excitement of knocking a couple back