Free The Mayor of Lexington Avenue by James Sheehan Page A

changed dramatically since the not-so-humble beginnings. The firm had expanded into the small communities in the interior of the state. Tracey had offices in ten cities from Arcadia to Okeechobee. Offices without lawyers—at least without lawyers paid by her. She negotiated with a local lawyer in each community to provide office space for her when she needed it; established a local telephone line and an 800 number. Her picture went on the back of the local telephone book and on several full pages throughout and she was on billboards heading into and out of town: a full body shot, artfully done. Tracey was standing in a tight navy blue business suit, her silky blond hair resting on her shoulders, a smile breaking from her ruby red lips. The caption was always the same— Let the James gang fight for you! —in large, bold print always level with Tracey’s breasts. You had to read the small print at the bottom of the ad to know that Tracey was advertising her legal services.
    If somebody called the local office, the local attorney’s secretary would use the same questionnaire that the receptionists used in Vero. The questionnaire would then be faxed to the main office. If the James firm decided to take the case, the local attorney would receive twenty-five percent of the settlement as a referral fee in a personal injury case and twenty-five percent of the retainer in a criminal case. Of course, to satisfy any bar inquiry, local counsel would have his or her own file complete with copies of everything that ever happened in the case.
    Tracey’s local attorney in Bass Creek was none other than Austin Reaves.
    The established practice at headquarters was to try and get criminal clients in right away because of speedy trial considerations and also because they paid cash—the more severe and expensive the case, the quicker the appointment. Even a lawyer as successful as Tracey James was concerned about cash flow.
    “Elena, is that correct?” Tracey held out her hand. Elena hesitated for a second but finally extended her own.
    “Yes, that’s correct.” Tracey sat in the soft leather chair facing Elena rather than behind her desk. It was the intimate touch.
    “I’ve read your file, Elena. Has your son been arrested yet?”
    “Yes. They arrested him yesterday.”
    “And the charge?” It wasn’t the question so much as the fact that she had to answer that caused Elena so much turmoil. She almost couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
    “First-degree murder,” she said, fighting back the tears.
    Tracey almost licked her chops like a lioness about to feast on a helpless gazelle. Murder was the big one, the twenty-five thousand dollar retainer. She rarely got the big ones and she didn’t know why. Perhaps the money cases were all in Miami. Perhaps the people in the small cities who were charged with murder couldn’t afford to pay for their own attorney. Not once did Tracey consider the possibility that she didn’t get the capital cases because she had never tried one in her life. She wasn’t thinking about that now. Now she was focused on sliding that money out of Elena’s purse. She didn’t notice how tightly Elena was holding on.
    Tracey stood up and walked around the room pretending to be deep in thought:
    For her part, Elena was not impressed at all. The nose job was too obvious and the tits too big, although the sight of them made her remember the lump she’d found in her own breast a few weeks earlier. It seemed like so long ago, but she couldn’t do anything about that now. Her focus now was this plastic personality prancing around the room. Elena wasn’t trusting Rudy’s life to this woman!
    Tracey knew it wasn’t working, that her rhythm was off. She changed tactics, something she never did, sitting down and for a moment just shutting up. She picked up Rudy’s file, which had been placed on the desk by her secretary. She’d already read it. Suddenly, from the recesses of her brain, a small picture