The lawyer must have come from a monochromatic world; even his skin was the colour of dirty snow. Behind black rimmed glasses were eyes of grey, if they had ever been blue it must somehow leached out along with his humanity. It occurred to Chloe that she could be judging him harshly. Perhaps he was a gem clouded by the expected garb of this corporate world. She had money to pay, but not at the level this man was accustomed to. Perhaps she could move him with the injustice that had befallen her brother, but inside she was already collapsing inward. He was the poet, the visionary; isn't that what got him in trouble in the first place? What was she? The good girl who did homework and met deadlines. She let her eyelids fall closed for a moment. Perhaps the good girl with measured words would be better here anyway, perhaps this lawyer would understand her muted version of events with less cynicism.


Elliott was no doubt – and he knew it well enough himself – a passionate young man; his fervent determination and strength did not show itself bashfully in the court-room, defending or accusing whom he was proposed to.

By missmilton, September 6, 2013.

Found in Elmere Common, authored by Francesca Milton.


The lawyer glanced down at his paperwork as if considering options. It was a gesture he'd learnt to perform in order to placate potential clients who were likely to display high emotions on being rejected. Sometimes folks came in with the most unbelievable sob stories, he hated them for it. He hadn't put himself through all that hard work just to mop up disasters of people's own making- well, not unless he was being paid handsomely to do it. This girl with her tenth grade education thought she could hook a high end lawyer by batting her eyes and telling a tall tale, tiresome really. He glanced up, serious but kindly, "I've been over the numbers and though we fervently desire justice for your brother we cannot proceed without our fee being met." The girl crumpled like a balloon with a slow leak, then just when the lawyer thought she would go she stood up and promptly fainted on the highly polished floor.


The lawyer sat in her office. If she stood on one spot in the middle it was possible for her to touch every wall. Wednesday morning found her slumped at her desk eying a stack of what appeared to be un-filed paperwork. In any other office this would be a sign of success, more work than the receptionist could handle! But here it was merely another signal to her ineptitude. On closer inspection the “papers” were a jumble of household bills and correspondence she hoped would drum up business. Yet these marketing opportunities sat gathering dust while she ate a doughnut, munching with all the excitement of a child at the dentist. She was mulling over how she could have possibly ended up where she was when “perfect prissy Priscilla” was working at an exclusive Toronto firm. No matter how many times she thought it over no answers came to her...


The lawyer sat in her crisp suit, her folded half-moon glasses bouncing up and down on her knee as she tapped her foot. Her two inch heel jostled in the stilted courtroom air, striking the wooden floor on every third bounce or so. By evening her black hair would fall loose and wavy to the small of her back, but here it was tied tightly into a bun. The only movements on her head were the large gold hoop earrings and the slow blinking of lids over eyes the same hue as the mahogany bench she was perched on. She imagined herself to appear calm and collected, but that leg gave her away. The prosecution counsel already had her number. They too had a reputation to keep, one that dictated the fees they could charge and thus their earnings. Rich was never rich enough and winning was all; justice was old hat, something for the weak minded. They would take a crow-bar to that crack of nerves and wedge it wide open for all to see.


Marlin surveyed his office. It was everything his father had dreamed he would achieve: ostentatious, reassuringly expensive, and in the most exclusive part of the city. He had perfected the art of argument in legalistic language and commanded an exorbitant fee. He was married, had a son and drove an exotic car. He had an executive home with so much square-footage he needed to hire several maids to clean it. His chef popped in three times a week to make the fine meals; the rest of the time he ate out. His problem now was that buying the best of everything no longer gave him joy. He'd tried having mistresses, and that was still fun, but it wasn't enough. The only way out of his slump was to do something radical and he wasn't into hard drugs. Many years ago a young friend of his had gone over to a non-profit, specializing in lobbying for legislation that increased peoples rights and freedoms rather than taking them away. Perhaps through reinventing himself he could save himself...


The lawyers suits worried Greg. He knew that they had to look good but these were the finest suits you could buy this side of the mountains. They were tailor made, flawless. The staff had perfect skin, perfect hair, perfect teeth and they smelled good. He shifted his position in his chair and began to tap his knees rhythmically. Then he scanned the corporate artwork around him, tasteful, inoffensive and expensively framed. When the lawyer came out she was barely older than his daughter yet she walked with the confidence of someone totally in command of her thoughts and actions, certain of her abilities. And why shouldn't she? Working here, she must have been the best of the best at Harvard, that's something to be proud of. Her red suit complemented her brown skin and her long black hair was swept up into a bun. She offered a hand of manicured nails and I shook it. Soft. Warm. Then it occurred to me that mine must be rough and sweaty. But she was a professional, warm and genuine.

By robertgreen, October 19, 2014.

I sat in the outer office waiting. I could see into the offices of some of the lawyers in this firm. The sign outside announced:

"The Michael, Themes, and Grossman Law Firm." I figured I would get Grossman, and I did. He wore a plain suit with a fancy tie which said, "I'm on my way up, but I have not gotten there yet." He had a firm handshake, and was pleasant enough.

"Mr. Grossman, I was in the hospital, and the staff made a mistake that nearly caused me to die. I want to sue them for damages."

"Well, you came to the right place. Now, we need a retainer fee of $5,000 to get things started."
His eyes flashed a greedy smile and his lips followed closely behind.

"I don't have that kind of money. How much do you think that we could get from the litigation?"

His eyes flashed again, "We will sue for a million, and get maybe $100,000 dollars. Of course, the law firm will have to have 40% of that."

"40 %?"

"Either 40% then, or $400 an hour now. Your choice.

By wmack99, January 2, 2015.

Bill McDonald.


The lawyer stood on the white steps that stretched many meters to her left and right, many meters up and down. She drew in a breath of the late-fall air, her lungs detecting the first chill of the season to come. Finally free of her mother's disapproval and outlandish expectations, she let a lipstick smile creep into her elfin features. There would be no working at the exclusive firms that typically bore her family name, she had finished her first week advocating for Human Rights and she finally felt alive; she was someone now. She was no longer just a rich little girl in a rich little suburb taking more extracurricular activities in a year than most kids could hope for in a year, she was a warrior with her mind, her pen and her computer. A gunshot snapped her from her daydream, she crouched on reflex before noticing the pool of red collecting at her own feet and the pain in her arm...