A few days later . . .             It was Saturday night and Bruce treated Catherine to dinner at The Russian Tea Room. It had been months since they’ve been there. Plus, he wanted to make up for the night he had spent at Beverly’s and Catherine couldn’t reach him.            As the host walked them to their table, Bruce noticed his drinking buddy in a red booth. Beverly was snug as a bug in a rug next to Claude Benoit.            The interview, he remembered.            But, it looked more like a date. Claude’s gray eyes sparkled like he was a teenage boy. Beverly smiled and grinned, lapping it up. &nb

            Bruce opened his eyes with Beverly in his arms. Her head rested on his chest along with her hand over one of his pecs. They must have fallen asleep. He stretched his arm out to grab his phone. It was seven-thirty. He had slept past five a.m. again.            “Beverly,” he said hoarsely.            She stirred.            “Beverly,” he called again as he looked down at her.            She purred like a cat who didn’t want to move. Her hand slid down his chest to his abdomen.            Bruce grabbed her hand before she could drag it any lower. “Beverly,” he said loud

            Bruce was beyond annoyed. Two cab drivers had refused to drive him where he wanted to go. He had already gotten in the back of one cab when he had told the driver where he wanted to go. The driver had refused to take him. Bruce had demanded he get moving. The driver had put the car in drive and sat there like Bruce hadn’t said a thing. He had given up and got out. As soon as he had, the driver pulled off. His tires had screeched when he did.            The second driver had said if it wasn’t night time he would take him to that area. But, since it was night, he had refused.            Bruce waved down a cab that was coming up on the corner. The driver pulled over. He walked to the passenger side window. The driver rolled it down an inch.      &

            Seventy-something year old attorney, Jackson Milton, was roused out of his sleep by the phone ringing at his bedside. He opened his eyes to see his alarm clock said five-o-nine in the morning. He cleared his throat and reached for his phone. He had a regular landline. His cell phone was in the other room. Jackson hated that thing and avoided using it as much as possible. Being as old as he was, he didn’t grow up in the age of technology. When he knew he was going to be home, he had the calls from his cell forwarded to his landline.            Only a client would call this early or a family member calling about an emergency.            “Hello?” he answered sleepily.            “Who is this? Where&rsq

            Five days later . . .             Eddie was working out in the prison yard with a few guys from his cell block. He was in his late fifties, but he could still keep up with the twenty and thirty-somethings.            “Balsom!” a guard shouted harshly.            “Yeah!” Eddie answered.            “Your lawyers are here to see you!” the guard yelled.            The hell?            “Yo man, you didn’t tell us you got a lawyer. You tryin’ to appeal your conviction?