For example, take the woman who just picked a certified check up off the floor. Brook Campanella. She founded the clinic a year back with another young lawyer named Lopez, who had gotten her degree at night school while working in a battered-women’s shelter.
At the time, Brook was front-page news. She first made headlines as a rookie lawyer for taking on a too-big-to-fail bank in a no-win case . . . and winning. So she was promptly scooped up by one of the most prestigious firms in Fort Lauderdale and immediately assigned second chair in a high-profile class-action mortgage case—mainly because the jury consultant said her cute, freckled face and unassuming petiteness would play well in court. She didn’t need glasses but was required to wear ones with plain glass after the consultant put her before focus groups.
Then a funny thing happened on the way to the verdict. Circumstances elevated her to lead attorney in the case, and she won again. What’s more, in doing so, she uncovered massive collusion at her own firm. It was an extremely complicated legal matter that would take an entire book to explain, but one well worth buying and reading. Bottom line: A lot of people with silk handkerchiefs in their suit pockets went to prison, and television crews filmed the firm’s name being taken down from the building. Brook was in demand again.
But by now, she’d had it with the kind of gilded-edge legal work handed down from skyscrapers.
She met Jacklyn Lopez at a self-defense class. Lopez was the instructor, holding up a pair of bright red training pads that Brook punched with unbridled ferocity and lean results. They got to talking. Turned out Lopez also had a law degree. Then they got to driving.
“What about that place?” asked Brook. “There’s a rent sign.”
Jacklyn shook her head. “Attached to a gyro shop. Once the smell gets in your clothes . . .”
They turned the corner and wandered into Little Haiti. Block after block of available office space. “Is that guy carrying a chicken?” The pair navigated back to Biscayne and headed north.
More discussion as they drove slow, and honking traffic whipped around them. At each red light, people on curbs peddled roses, bottled water, redemption. “Pull over,” said Brook.
They ended up in the part of town called Aventura. A dubious area with a transitional economy. It could go either way. But the neighborhood possessed the one bellwether sign that financial analysts always respect.
They just opened a Chipotle.
Brook and Jacklyn stood in the parking lot of an older two-story building. It wasn’t originally designed as a strip mall, but guess what? On the bottom floor resided a nail salon and a beauty salon with just enough overlapping service on the menu that it had become the source of brooding tension between a group of Koreans and another group of Koreans.
Between the two businesses was a narrow door with a glass window leading to a warped wooden staircase. The two women looked up at a leaf-clogged rain gutter. Then they looked down again at the door—the cliché entrance of a law office. Only the gold lettering was missing. Brook grabbed the rental sign off the mailbox, and they fist-bumped . . .
. . . That was then, this was now. The new women’s law firm accepted the kind of cases that were less lucrative and more fulfilling. Like the one that began on a recent Wednesday morning.
Just after nine o’clock, the receptionist looked up. “You may go in now. Last door.”
An elderly Hispanic woman was helped into Brook’s office by her granddaughter. The attorney rushed around her desk to pull over an additional chair. The old woman didn’t speak a word of English. Her granddaughter spoke better than most Americans, because she was one, although certain other Americans with mangled grammar weren’t entirely convinced.
Brook opened a folder on her desk. “You mentioned on the phone a landlord dispute. Something about the security deposit and last month’s rent?”
“That’s right,” said the granddaughter, named Danielle. But she answered to Danny. “They kept it all, citing cleaning and repair costs from excessive wear and tear.”
“May I see what documentation they provided?”
“They didn’t give my grandmother anything,” said Danny. “It was all verbal. When I called to request an itemized expense statement, they just laughed and asked if I was joking.”
Brook sat back. “No paperwork?”
“This is common in our area,” said Danny. “They expect people who are scraping by to just move on and not challenge it because they have to make ends meet. And an eight-hundred-dollar dispute isn’t worth it to most lawyers. But my grandmother cleans houses for the kind of people who are screwing her, and that money means the world. Which is why I know her apartment was immaculate when she left.”
“I wish we had photos,” said Brook.
Danny handed over her cell phone.
“What’s this?” asked the lawyer.
“Photos,” said Danny. “I took them when she moved out, just in case.”
“Prudent.” Brook closed the folder. “You already signed the needed paperwork, so I won’t take up any more of your time.” She stood. “This is straightforward. I’ll be back in touch tomorrow.”
They thanked her profusely and left.
Near the end of the day, Brook opened the folder again and dialed a number.
“Yeah?” Someone chewing on the other end.
“My name is Brook Campanella, and I’m an attorney representing one of your former tenants.”
“Who?” A loud TV sound in the background from a sports program.
“Brook Campanella. Mrs. Dominguez retained me—”
“You a lawyer?” Chomp, chomp, chomp.
“Yes, and I think we can quickly clear this up. You kept her security deposit and last month’s rent.”
“Probably for cleaning and repairs.” Chomp, chomp. “That’s standard.”
“Actually we can’t be sure,” said Brook. “We have no receipts for any work done.”
“Christ, do you have any idea the condition these people leave their apartments in?”
“These people?” asked Brook.
From the other end of the line, a second voice: “Who is it?”
The first man’s voice turned away from the phone. “Some ambulance chaser for one of our tenants.”
“Tell him to eat shit and die.”
“It’s a chick.”
“Hand me the nachos.”
The sports sounds from the television became aggressively violent.
“Excuse me,” said Brook. “I have photographs of the condition of the apartment. If we could just talk—”
“Listen, sweetie, since you sound kind of young, I’ll be polite. I got Ultimate Fighting on pay-per-view and you’re costing me money, so if you don’t mind . . .”
“Actually I do mind,” said Brook. “I always try to avoid escalating legal action. If you could either provide me with a detailed expense sheet . . .”
The man spoke away from the phone again. “She wants an expense sheet. Can you believe this broad?” Derisive laughter.
“Or a refund in full,” said Brook. “In that case, I’d be willing to waive my legal fee. It’s really not worth it for you to—”
Click.
Chapter 3
The Apalachicola
A shiny Corvette Stingray skidded on and off the road as it raced through a section of the national forest known as Tate’s Hell.