Three

I could be making more money. At least, I suppose I could. I haven't really tested that theory, not really, but I imagine if I was willing to represent bad people I could make more.

I know that sounds backwards. Like Judge Brown said, I represent a lot of guilty people, but guilty doesn't mean bad. Drugs aren't a moral issue. At least I don't think so. Drugs, prostitution, shoplifting, burglary; these are crimes of circumstance. Nobody wants to be doing these things, believe me. They are crimes committed by people with no other alternatives. These people are poor, not bad.

Bad people commit big crimes that they don't have to. Fraud, corporate theft, tax evasion, sex trafficking; these are crimes committed by people who want to hurt other people. Some would argue that they are committed seeking power, but power is just a polite way of saying you're hurting other people for a good reason. But there aren't good reasons. These are the crimes of bad people.

A smart person would say that those bad people deserve a full throated defense as much as the guilty people I represent, and I agree with that on paper. But like the Judge said, it doesn't have to be me.

That said, if I did take those cases I think I could make more money, but I don't, so I don't. I've already tried cutting back on all the non-essentials; Netflix, Starbucks, clothes from stores other than the Goodwill, but lawyering is expensive. Rent on the store, phone lines, internet... it all adds up. So, it's either ditch it and go work as an associate for one of those firms that takes those nasty clients, or work a second job. I don't like it, but it's better than the alternative.

I toss my blazer and Rayon blouse on the bed next to the dog and slide out of my skirt. Pantyhose roll down over my toes and get hung inside out on the hook next to my towel with my beige padded bra. Cotton undies go in the hamper and I step into the shower to wash the 5-0 out of my hair.

I have an appointment with a new client tonight, and that always makes me nervous. New people worry me, you never know their intentions until you're halfway committed to the job, and bailing last minute isn't good for business. I vet new clients as best I can before taking an appointment, but it's not foolproof, and I've been stung enough times to go into it with a reasonable sense of caution.

After I'm dry I grab my uniform from an Ikea clothes rack next to the TV. Pink silk panties and matching lace push-up bra. My dress is pink polyester satin, bought off of Amazon for thirty bucks, but it's cut so high on my thigh that no guy is going to ask to see the label. The gold chain on my neck came from Forever 21 when they were going out of business. It's cheap, but it gives 'young' which is always a plus. Heels come from Last Chance. They're several years out of style, but again, if he's paying attention to that I'm not doing my job.

Yeah, I'm a hooker. It's a crude word and something like escort would probably be more accurate, but I'm not proud, and as an attorney I know what I'm doing. The semantic difference isn't useful to me. I have sex for money. Money that pays the rent and electricity on this office. Money that subsidizes my ability to represent the kinds of clients I want to. Money that comes honest and without the guilt I'd feel making it the way society would prefer.

And ya know what, it's not that bad. Believe me, I'd quit if I could. This was not my childhood dream. Like I said before, these are choices that come out of necessity. I needed to pay for law school and eat at the same time, and when that was over I needed to open a practice and pay off loans, and yes I still needed to eat. I'm not proud of this part of my life, but I'm not ashamed either. I sleep just fine at night, and most of the time, if only barely, I actually enjoy myself.

So, until I get that big Erin Brockovich case, the one that makes me famous and gets me clients that can afford to pay me in a currency other than a napkin full of Adderall, this is what I'm doing. Fifteen-hundred bucks a night, three nights a week, and I keep the lights on and my malpractice insurance paid in full.

I brush out my hair, add a touch of blush, mascara, and eye liner, and with a spritz of twelve dollar pink perfume I'm out the door to the Uber that's been waiting for me for almost twenty minutes.