States of Grace, Mandy Miller [uplifting novels .txt] 📗

But I’ve been under the knife one too many times out of necessity, so maybe I’m not one to judge.

I look down and groan at the sight of my sweatpants and faded green Army T-shirt. Not a good choice for this land of Barbie mommies and the always stylish City Commissioner Armando Martinez, a.k.a. Manny. I should bolt while I have the chance, but my escape plan is derailed by a waving hand.

“Grace, over here.” The familiar lilting cubano accent stops me in my tracks, its cadence reminiscent of the rhumba we used to dance and the mojitos we used to drink until the wee hours in Little Havana. The sound, once appealing, now a galling reminder of the man who called when I returned broken from war, and said, “Come on down to Miami, the weather’s fine and there’s lots of crime,” and later, left me to rot in jail.

I follow the hand to Manny seated at a tiny round table in the back, a manila folder labeled Settlement Agreement in front of him.

“Good to see you,” he says, pulling me in for a hug, the word “you” coming out as “chu,” the Miami Spanglish accent of his youth as hard to get rid of as a vulture on roadkill. But the thing is, that’s what I liked about him from the day we met in the student union at Columbia—the sharp edges of his less than privileged youth, his utter lack of artifice. With Manny you get what you see, not a curated version like the blue-blooded boys I grew up with in New England. Manny is nothing if not a product of his roots in Havana, the city ninety miles to the south, a paradise frozen in amber at midnight on January 1, 1959, its desiccated buildings and cars still lovingly preserved by those left behind. Like Manny, his parents are people of action, not the kind to await their fate, be it crushing poverty or Che Guevara’s firing squads. They fled with nothing but the proverbial clothes on their backs and their will to make a better life. Like a good immigrant son, Manny took to the education his parents had been denied and coupled it with their work ethic and, later, me. And voilá, instant American Dream.

Until the dream turned to nightmare.

I slip into the chair opposite him.

He runs a hand through his wavy, dark hair dappled with gray now, a development that serves to soften his hawkish features. “Can I get you a coffee?”

“No.”

He’s wearing a custom-tailored suit in khaki with a pale blue tie in a double Windsor knot, the dimple perfectly centered. He stirs his usual two packets of sugar into a thimble-sized cup of steaming espresso, a gold Rolex peeking out from under his cuff. “Not quite the café con leche we used to get at Versailles.”

“Not even close.”

Spoon suspended mid-air, he says, “You look good, Gracie.”

“You sound surprised.”

“On the contrary, looking good was never your problem.”

“But, being good was another issue, right?”

He gives me the type of tight smile intended to cover all manner of painful history. “For both of us,” he says, sweeping a couple of crumbs off the table. “But that’s all in the past. It’s time for us both to get on with our lives.” He pats the folder.

“Fine, but there’s something I need to tell you first.” I take a second to tamp down the anger percolating in my gut and try for a more conciliatory tone so as not to blow my chances. “Actually, something I need to ask you.”

“I knew it. I knew you had some other reason for coming. I mean, you’ve been dodging me and my attorney for weeks. You didn’t even text me back. I half expected you not to show. Out with it. What do you want?”

I brace my arms across my chest. “I’m going to defend Zoe Slim.”

He leans back, tongue in his cheek. “And how do you figure that?”

“Because you are going to make it happen. You get me the case, and I’ll sign whatever you want, no questions asked.”

“Like you’ll ever run out of questions.”

As much as it pains me, I can’t stifle a smile at how well he knows me. “Manny, I’m not kidding. Zoe Slim is big news. It’s the kind of case that will get me back on the radar, the kind of case that can make a career.”

His clears his throat. “Or, in your case, remake.”

I slide my chair close to the table. “And it’s the last favor you’ll ever need to do for me.”

“No offense, Grace. You may have your license back, but I’m not sure you’re—”

I spring up, spilling his coffee. “I shouldn’t have come. I should have known better than to think you’d help me.”

“Hey, take it easy. Sit back down.”

“Sorry,” I say, wiping up the coffee with a napkin as I retake my seat. “All I need is a chance, Manny. I’m trying. I’ve been trying, but I need a break to get me out of the rut of having to take court-appointed cases for indigent clients which pays less than I could make waiting tables. I’m still a damn good lawyer.”

He turns his palms out. “I’m not saying you’re not a good lawyer, or that you’re not trying, but you and I both know the mega-rich hire only the top echelon, especially when the life of their wrongly accused kid is on the line.”

“You sure about that?”

“About what?

“The wrongly accused part?”

“It’s hard for you, isn’t it?”

“What’s hard for me?”

“Having to represent bad guys.”

“And girls. And no, not really. I have to do it. For now. And, it turns out I’m pretty good at it.”

“But what about right and wrong, truth and justice, all that stuff you were so fond of spouting back when you were a prosecutor? I mean it can’t be easy to be on the other side now.”

“Maybe not, but those ideals are luxuries I can no longer afford. You cut me