Anxious because she had only just gotten up to full speed. The first several months after leaving Prescott & Talbott, she’d done all the things she’d sacrificed in her pursuit of partnership. She’d slept in, taken long weekends, and had left her office at midday to go skiing at Seven Springs. She’d helped out with the Valentine’s Day party in her youngest niece’s preschool class. Caught up with girlfriends she had literally not seen in years. And had thrown herself headlong into her new relationship with Leo Connelly. It had been a glorious break. But it was over.
She now had an active caseload of matters that required her attention. As a one-woman shop she couldn’t afford to divert her time from her corporate clients to research esoteric points of elder law just to satisfy some judge’s curiosity. Especially not at the princely sum of twenty bucks an hour—not while clients like VitaMight were paying her three fifty an hour.
What she needed was a bright-eyed, eager-to-please young associate. Someone who would view a trip to Springport as an adventure, not a giant time suck. Someone she could turn to and say, “I need you to find a case that holds an allegedly incapacitated person is not capable of providing informed consent to the appointment of a guardian.” But, what she had was Winston, a virtual assistant who compiled her invoices and sent them out to clients from somewhere in Nepal while she was sleeping. It seemed unlikely he would be much help in this situation.
She would love to hand the case over to someone local, like Drew Showalter. She’d run into Showalter at the court administrator’s office, while she was being instructed to fill out the form in triplicate and not to bill for travel time.
He’d been openly interested in the incapacitation proceeding, asking her how she’d been appointed, when the next hearing was, and whether she’d be back in town before then. She hadn’t gotten a vibe that he’d been hitting on her, so she assumed he wanted to know how to expand his practice in Orphan’s Court. She’d told him to try walking out of court more slowly, but she wished she could have just handed him the file.
She sighed and reached into her bag to pull out her parking ticket as she neared the municipal lot. The sun had disappeared behind a clot of heavy clouds and the air had gotten cool. It wasn’t the kind of day that lent itself to loitering outdoors; so, the cluster of people near her car, parked at the edge of the lot adjacent to a small park, caught her eye.
Drawing closer, she realized they weren’t hanging out without a purpose; they were up to something. A tight knot of two sign-waving, long-haired guys and two women with braids hanging down their backs and flowing skirts was skirting the edge of the adjacent park and chanting something about gas. Two more men were crouched beside the front of her car. She saw a flash of silver in the smaller man’s hand.
“Hey!” she yelled, walking faster. “Get away from my car!”
The smaller one started and turned toward her.
“Corporate whore!” one of the women shouted from the fringe of the park.
She didn’t turn toward the voice; she kept her eyes on the two men who were closer.
The taller one stood and yanked his friend to his feet. The shorter guy folded his blade and slipped it into his pocket.
The group was breaking up. The women and two of the men were drifting off to the right, headed into the park. Apparently, they weren’t interested in joining their friends.
Two was better than six.
Krav Maga taught the best response to a threatened attack was prevention or avoidance. Too late for that. The next best response was escape or evasion. Only if that failed would she stay and fight. And if she fought, she’d fight to win—not something she relished. Especially not in fitted dress and heels, in a strange small town, against six people. Two guys were more manageable.
But the better course would be to get in her car and drive the hell out of town.
She aimed her remote key at the door and jabbed the button. The car beeped. And then she froze.
Flapping rubber by her left front wheel caught her eye.
She hurried to the front of the car and stooped beside the door to inspect her tire. Slashed. She turned and looked over her shoulder. The rear tire was in the same condition.
“Now what, bitch?” The taller guy laughed and wailed a handful of gravel at her as she stood. It hit the hood of the car and fell to the ground in a shower. His friend stood, frozen, arms at his side.
Sasha waited until the tall guy bent down for another fistful of rocks and made her move. She pulled the driver’s door open, threw herself into the seat, slammed the door shut, and hit the lock.
She had no idea if Springport had a 9-1-1 dispatch but she took out her cell phone and keyed in the numbers anyway, tilting her rearview mirror so she could keep her eyes on the protesters or whatever they were.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?” A male voice, crisp and alert filled her ear.
“I’m in Springport. At the municipal parking lot. A group of—uh, I don’t know—activists is here. They slashed my tires. Most of them have run off, but there are two men. One is throwing rocks.”
“Ma’am, Springport Township does not have a local police department. That area is served by the State Police out of Dogwood. I need to contact their dispatch. Please hold.” The phone clicked in her ear as he placed her on hold.
Sasha gritted her teeth. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania’s patchwork of home-rule counties, townships, and municipalities was many things. Efficient was not one of them.
Hurry, she thought, as the phone rang. Once. Twice.
The hippies had come around to the front of her car and were staring at her through the windshield.
She stared back.
Two white males, early twenties, maybe mid-twenties at the oldest. The tall one was on the left. He was well over six feet but rail thin. Light brown hair, long, pulled back in a low ponytail. Those giant earrings that looked like black plugs in both ears. His feet were planted in a wide stance, and he’d acquired a thick tree branch from the park.
His friend was shorter, stockier, and antsier. His dark hair frizzed out around his head in a cloud and his brown eyes darted from the branch in his companion’s hand to Sasha and back. He jittered from side to side in a little hop step.
Three rings. Four.
The tall guy smacked the branch against his hand.
“Come on,” Sasha said aloud. “Answer the phone.”
Five.
“Dogwood Station.” A woman’s voice this time, overworked, not interested.
“Yes. I’m being attacked in the municipal parking lot in Springport. Please send someone. I’m in the dark gray Passat in the far corner of the lot. My tires are slashed. Two men are—”
“Ma’am. Ma’am,” the woman interrupted her, no longer bored, her voice full of concern. Sasha heard the clatter of keys. “The nearest unit is currently outside Firetown, approximately 25 minutes from your location. I need to put you on hold now and radio the car.” The line went silent.
Within a minute, the dispatcher was back. “Officer Maxwell is en route. What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Sasha McCandless. I’m . . . not local.”
She’d been about to identify herself as an officer of the court but thought the better of it. She never knew how someone would react to a lawyer. A person who’d had a nasty divorce or been ordered to pay damages after a car crash could carry a grudge against the whole profession. After hearing her primary care doctor’s rant against medical malpractice lawyers during her annual exam one year, Sasha had made a point of always mentioning to Dr. Alexander that she didn’t do any med mal work.
“Okay, now, Sasha, you hold tight until the officer gets there. Do not exit your vehicle.”
“Don’t worry,” Sasha said. She had no plans to get out of the car.
As the call ended, the tree branch smashed into her windshield.
Sasha flinched and braced herself, but the glass held.
The tall guy pulled back to take another swing. H
is friend caught his arm mid-swing.
“Jay, c’mon, let’s get out of here. This is not peaceful.” He was still hopping from one foot to the other, but he hung on to the tall guy’s arm. His voice was strained and loud enough to hear from inside the car.
Jay tried to shake him off.
“Dude,” Jay shouted at the smaller guy, “we need to stand up for Mother Earth.”
His friend shook his head. “No, man, I’m out.” He dropped Jay’s arm and took off toward the park, kicking up gravel in his wake.
Jay watched him go and then turned back to Sasha.
He hefted the tree branch and crashed it into the windshield again. His lips were pulled back, like a wolf’s, and his eyes never left Sasha’s.
The stick bounced off the glass, and a web of cracks spread out in front of Sasha. The next hit would finish the job.
Sasha checked the rearview mirror. No one else in sight.
She stared at Jay through the pattern of cracks and calculated her options, ignoring the ache in the back of her head. She could turn on the ignition, gun the engine, and see how far she got on two—probably four—flat tires. But he might get the last swing in first.
Sasha sighed.
She placed her phone in the center console, unlocked the door, and stepped out.
Maintaining eye contact, she stepped around in front of the car and stood right in front of Jay, planting her feet wide and bending her knees slightly. Looked up at him and hoped his fleeing friend had the only knife.
“You want to mix it up?” He laughed. But she could hear the uncertainty behind it. This wasn’t part of his plan.
She waited a beat while he tried to decide: attack a five-foot-tall, one hundred-pound woman or walk away.
“Here’s what you’re going to do,” she told the wild-eyed man in front of her. “You’re going to toss the stick at my feet and then back away slowly.”
“Or what?”
She kept her voice soft and even. “Or, Jay, I am going to beat you to a bloody pulp. Then, after you’ve crawled away to lick your wounds, I’m going to track you down and press criminal charges against you and your friend. And, then, I’m going to file a civil lawsuit against you and beat you to a bloody pulp again in the courtroom.”
He smirked at her, then feinted like he was going to drop the stick. Instead, he lunged at her, swinging it fast and wild over his head toward her.
Instinct told her to lurch back, but training told her lean forward fast. Training won out.
Block. She burst toward him, moving in close and hit his upper arm with both hands while driving a knee into his groin. A hard block. Sometimes that was all it took to disarm a person; the force from the block would drive the stick from his hands.
Not Jay. He hung on tight to the stick.
Lock. Sasha slid her left arm over his bare, hairy arm and right under his elbow, rotating his elbow up. With her left hand, she clasped her right forearm and squeezed his shoulder with her right hand. He tried to squirm free, but she pushed down firm on his shoulder as her left wrist came up under his elbow, creating a lock and immobilizing the stick.
Control. From there, she stepped forward, her legs behind his and took him down. He landed heavily on the gravel, his legs splayed out and his arm twisted up. He clawed at her with his free hand.
Strike. She grabbed the stick and wrenched it free of his hands. She popped his knee with it and then brought it up and hit him three times in rapid succession in the head. She swung in fast, short bursts.
He threw his hands over his head to shield his face.
“Had enough?” she asked, stepping back, but keeping the stick raised, ready to strike if he moved toward her.
He struggled to get up, first to his knees and then, unsteadily, to his feet. He stared at her and crabbed backward for several paces before turning and running hard toward the park.
She waited until his back had disappeared into the trees and tossed the branch to the ground. Then, she leaned against the hood of her car and waited for Officer Maxwell to show up.
* * * * * * * * * *
Sasha rolled her neck to the left, then to the right. She was right back in the same courthouse where she’d wasted her morning. After hearing she was an attorney returning to her car from a court appearance, Officer Maxwell had driven her straight to the sheriff’s office and made her the deputy on duty’s problem.
Maxwell had scanned the deputy’s badge, which identified him as G. Russell, and given him an overly hearty greeting.
“Deputy Russell,” he’d said, overly familiar. “Good to see you.”
The deputy had eyed him from behind his desk. Finally, he’d risen from his seat and held out a reluctant hand. “Maxwell, how you doing?”
With the pleasantries out of the way, the state trooper had gotten down to business. He’d explained an officer of the court had been attacked and the sheriff’s office was responsible for the primary investigation. Russell had tried to refuse her. Like she was a package he hadn’t ordered. He’d claimed the sheriff’s office didn’t have jurisdiction. The two officers had argued back in forth in hushed tones, but in the end Maxwell had prevailed.
Deputy Russell, resigned but polite, took a long look at her and then disappeared in search of coffee. She sat back in the deputy’s creaking guest chair and looked around the office. It had none of the aged glamour and charm of the county’s only courtroom. Instead of burnished hardwoods and brass, the office was awash in fluorescent lights and seventies-era carpet. Russell’s metal desk had seen better days. It was scratched all over and had what appeared to be a dent in the top left drawer. She leaned forward to get a closer look. It was big enough and deep enough that she wondered if it had been created by a head.
She straightened as Russell walked back into the office with two ceramic mugs and placed one on the desk in front of her.
“Sorry it took a bit,” he said, pointing with his free hand at the coffee mug in front of her. “You look like you could use a fresh cup, so I made a new pot.”
He raised his mug and inhaled before taking a sip. “Fair trade, shade-grown organic Cubano,” he told her.
Sasha raised a brow along with her mug. She had always thought law enforcement outfits specialized in barely drinkable, burnt Folgers.
Her first swallow corrected that notion. The coffee was hot, robust, and strong. She thought she might cry from joy. As the adrenaline had drained from her body, she’d started to drag. It had been a long day. She could use a decent cup of coffee.
“Wow. Thanks.”
He shrugged but couldn’t hide a smile. “Coffee is sort of a hobby of mine.”
She smiled back at him. “It’s sort of a requirement of mine.”
He cleared his throat and lowered himself into his desk chair. They drank their coffee in silence for several minutes. Russell seemed to be in no hurry to take her statement.
“Did you use tap water to make this?” Sasha wondered if the waitress at the diner had blamed the water for the coffee’s taste when the culprit was more likely cheap, stale beans.
Russell knitted his eyebrows together at the question but answered it. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t. The oil and gas people swear the water is fine, but I notice they all carry around bottled water. They even pitched in and got one of those water coolers and set up delivery of water for the Recorder of Deeds office since they spend so much time there. If they aren’t gonna drink it, I’m not gonna drink it.”
“The oil and gas people?”
Russell gestured toward the window. “You know, the Shale.”
The Marcellus Shale was the thick layer of gas-rich rock running deep under most of the state—in some places, nine thousand feet below the ground. For ages, everyone had believed there was no cost-effective way to get to it, but in recent years, the oil and gas industry had begun to bore wells and pump them full of sand and water mixed with a chemical cocktail. The pressure would fracture the shale and gas would be released. And so hydrofr
acking was born.
In just a few years, the oil and gas companies had entered into mineral rights leases with thousands of landowners and entire swaths of Pennsylvania were dotted with wells, drilling rigs, and equipment. At first, everyone had been a fan of fracking. Environmentalists, farmers, corporations, and local politicians all gushed about the cleaner fuel, the jobs, and the money that it would pump into the towns and rural areas that dotted the state. Sasha knew several attorneys who had focused their practices entirely on oil and gas rights; they couldn’t work fast enough to satisfy the demand for their services.
Fast forward four years, and the cheerleading had been replaced by yelling, finger-pointing, and lawsuits from all parties concerned. Possibly toxic wastewater was being sent to water treatment plants that weren’t sure what they were getting, let alone how to handle it; gas and radioactive material had seeped into the drinking water; and homeowners were posting videos of brown water pouring from their kitchen faucets. And hydrofracking was being blamed for everything from anemic children and cancer-stricken adults to polluted fish and earthquakes.
Politicians were arguing over taxing and regulating the gas companies, and neighbors were arguing over whether hydrofracking was saving or destroying their towns. All the while, more wells were being drilled.
It had become a loud, ugly, stinking mess—literally and figuratively—as far as Sasha could tell.
“Fracking’s big around here?” she asked. She’d done most of her driving before the sun had risen that morning and hadn’t noticed the dark shapes of derricks looming over the farmlands that lined the highway.
Russell laughed. “I’d say so. In fact the guys who attacked you probably thought you were one of the suits.”
Sasha McCandless 02 - Inadvertent Disclosure Page 4
