Free The Red Storm by Grant Bywaters

work for him, which included finding witnesses, interviewing, conducting legal research, and performing other activities Fisher did not have the time to do. He was directly responsible for my current profession. Fisher also helped push for me to get licensed.
    I had been forwarded to Prescott after Fisher’s murder. Prescott was gracious enough to take me on as a client, and charged me a fraction of what his normal fee would be, perhaps because Prescott had been good friends with Fisher as well, but I think it was predominantly because of the pro bono work I do for him. I had located enough key witnesses when he needed them for him to realize I would be no use to him in jail.
    And it seems that’s what it always came down to. You had to make yourself look irreplaceable enough with the right people. It made no difference if this was true or not, as long as they believed it to be so. Prescott knew how to work the legal system, no matter how crooked it could be, and without his counsel, I’d have been in jail over a trumped-up charge long ago.
    Prescott’s office was a short walking distance on a stretch of Royal Street called Balcony Row—an area that got its name from the identical houses that were built by the Company of Architects in 1832, and whose trademark was the blooming galleries that sprung out by the adjacent buildings.
    I reached Prescott’s place, a two-story town house converted into an office building. I climbed the interior stairs to the top floor and into the small anteroom. The room was decorated with the usual peeling wallpaper, chairs, and a dwarf coffee table with economics magazines stacked on it.
    Near the door marked “Private” was a French-style mahogany writing desk, with fluted, tapered legs. Behind the desk sat a young witchy-looking woman filing her nails and ignoring the half sheet of paper coming out of her typewriter.
    I placed her at being about five foot five. She had dirty blond hair, a long, narrow face, and a pointy nose. Her chin had a mole on it that looked like an engorged bug trying to burrow its way in. Her black belted shirtdress did not round out her figure much.
    She was new, but that wasn’t unusual. Prescott went through many secretaries because of the “extracurricular activities” he had them do.
    I walked up and she looked up from her nail filing and politely asked, “Can I help you?”
    I told her who I was.
    â€œWell, Mr. Prescott ain’t in at the moment. And if you’re thinking of waiting for him, you’ll have to do it outside. We don’t want you coloreds in the waiting room scarin’ clients.”
    â€œSays who?”
    She said, “Says Mr. Prescott.”
    â€œHe said no such thing.”
    â€œYou calling me a liar?”
    â€œI’m calling you a lot more than that.”
    Her nostrils flared. She was about to hiss out something when a buzzing sound coming from a glass-covered Knickerbocker Annunciator box interrupted her.
    With a disarming smile I said, “Looks like your boss wants you. Tell him I stopped by and need to see him, if you know what’s good for you,” and left.
    Back at the apartment, I paced around the room like a large cat waiting for something to nibble on. Half a mile’s worth of pacing, I got the call I was waiting for.
    â€œI scolded my secretary for the way she treated you,” Prescott said. “She is really not all that bad. She has been through some rough times is all, and needs some breaking in.”
    â€œI hope you ain’t the one doing the breaking,” I said.
    â€œNever mind that. What did you want to see me about?”
    â€œI need you to go downtown. The district attorney wants me,” I said.
    â€œWhat the hell does he want now?”
    I told Prescott the whole story. When I finished, he said, “Get down there. I’ll be there as soon as I can. And don’t say a thing until I get there. In fact, just leave