Criminal Intent (Closed for the marvelous Mephistophelily)

His door read Johnathon Arthur Zimmerman. J.D. He was a criminal lawyer, young for his position. Though 10 years of school, and 6 of practice had made him feel older than he was. He was a minor partner in the firm of Schultz, Kopecky, and Brashear. His name wasn't on the sign, those were the three wise men, but he was certainly the most senior of any junior member.

6 long years.

He had the smallest of the top level offices. Opulent by any stretch, but too small to feel open, and too big to feel cozy. A single bay window let in his light, when he bothered to have the blinds drawn. The view was ugly, depressing, a direct inside to a cube farm. The respectable offices his firm held hardly the top floor of someone else' building. Six floors of thirty made them the biggest tenant, but this was far from the penthouse. He sighed looking over his Juris Doctor on the wall, his degrees the only decoration on bare walls. How fitting. He looked over his desk and sighed at the picture of his perfect blonde wife. The gorgeous arm candy ice queen. A laugh at all the right moments, and wrong ones. Her smile a frozen thing, like a politician's. They'd been married for 10 years. If they'd made love that many times in their lives he would be shocked to know. He idly wondered if she was cheating on him. But he doubted it. The woman was likely asexual, and married to her career more than to him. She was a brilliant mind in the field of Antitrust, which was incredibly profitable, but impossible for anyone outside it to understand. Even as a lawyer himself, with his myriad knowledge of the criminal justice system, seizures, and warrants, admissible and inadmissible evidence, the vagaries of people's constitutional rights, and the privileges not freedoms man had. Antitrust was as baffling to him as his own wife was.

Not for the first time he pushed her picture down in disgust, her artificial smile kissing the desk. He'd sent her flowers Monday. It was Thursday and she still hadn't commented on them.

His practice was profitable as well, though not as much as hers. Real money came in defending the truly guilty, and that was not something he did often. Though he still consulted to the teams who did. And received his fee. Even if the money made his hands feel gritty and red. today was different. No well connected old men on canes with worn shoes, and cardigans. Surrounded by young men in suits more expensive than his.

And Armani cotton wasn't cheap. His pants were someone's paycheque in teh real world.

Today was different. It wasn't quite Pro Bono work. And it wasn't necessarily Court appointed, but it was currently being offered at a steep discount, and it was given to him by the state. Helping some young woman from trouble about ATM hacking. The charges were incredibly vague. Almost like they were reaching for something to put on her. Slow month, a need for convictions, even ones that could be busted down to community service. he hated these kinds of cases, but they looked good. Good for the firm, good for the business pages, good for the little people, and good for his career. He hated everything that looked good for his career right now. These were bad days. Days that therapists had wet dreams over, made pharma companies rich, and drive alcohol sales to record peaks.

Johnathon didn't use any of them. But he was sincerely thinking of all three. It was a night to go back to his expensive home gym, and notice how long simple physical exertion could go before he noticed how Alone his penthouse apartment was. His wife would not be home, he knew that. There was always a red light blinking on his office phone, but one of those messages would be her assistant telling him whatever plans they did or did not have were now canceled; and he should not wait up for her. He sucked in his non existent gut, and felt that twitch in his abdomen. The one that said call his receptionist, and have her crawl under his desk. An office affair would hardly be the end of him, in fact it would probably only remind his few bosses how it felt like when they were young, and the girls of the steno pool were always interested in a better position, even if it wasn't so comfortable on the knees. He dug his toe down. He had such soft carpets.

He sighed, that weary sigh, and hit the button that paged his receptionist. "Marie." Silently and sullenly dreading who and what was walking though his door today. "Buzz in my last client. And bring them a coffee or tea or whatever they might like."

This day may as well be done with. He certainly was.

"Oh, Marie, honey, I'm gonna need something a bit heavier than that." The purr of a laugh followed her words as the brunette waiting on the couch stood. Black high heels, an attempt at demure short blue dress that seemed to borrow from its length to hold her bosom in place. She smirked to the young woman at the desk, winking at the surprised look she received. "Sounds like your boss could use a nice stiff one. Let's surprise him with that, hm?"

Smiling again, the woman slid through the office door, closing it gently behind her. "Mister Zimmerman." She gave him a little nod, then approached with an outstretched hand. "Allow me to introduce myself. Lucy McCartney. Your client." She smirked again, peeking at the files on his desk. "Oh look, you found me." She chuckled at that, glancing back at the door. "Tsk tsk, your secretary runs a bit behind, doesn't she? Hm. Now... Johnathan. Is it alright I call you that? Lucy is perfectly fine for me."

She settled into one of the chairs by his desk, folding her legs together, still keeping that smile. "There's more to all this than the ATMs. That's what they're saying, implying, isn't it?"

She paused, peeking back as the door opened again, the young woman stepping in with a tray holding a bottle of Jack and two glasses. A hesitant glance was given to the other woman, then to her boss, before bringing the tray to his desk and returning to her own tasks in the other room. "She's a nice thing," Lucy noted with a smile, sitting forward enough to pour into the glasses. "Does she work under the table?" A question asked in the sweetest of voices, but her eyes glimmered of other intentions of those words.

"Drink with me, Mister Zimmerman. If we're to work together, I want to be sure you're not a man easily swayed by a few drops of liquor." She downed her own quickly, smiling again as she sat the glass on the tray, glancing about his room. Her eyes fell upon the flipped picture. She made no vocal recognition, but mentally noted this. Should be a spot for a family photo, there.... The Missus, the two point five children and the pooch of American dreams, no doubt intended to remind why people did what they did. Instead,his was faceplanted into polished mahagony. Hm.

"So, Mister Zimmerman. Where should we start?"

His head perked. Johnathon remembered hearing voices like that, on lonely nights in law school when the pressures of convoluted text went too far. When he'd been a bit too long from Cynthia, and perhaps needed a bit of a visit from Palmela. Nights like that, he'd dug out an old VHS and watched a woman, possibly younger than forty, talk to him like she wanted him there. Right in the room with her.

This woman, Lucy McCartney had a voice like that. She wanted him there. It was suggestive, almost more so than her outfit. Which might have started as sweet and demure, but the attributes of this woman could likely make a burlap sack seem risque. But it was something in this woman's voice, in her teasing tone. In those sharp suggestive words that bowled him over. That made him nod his head for a moment about a five o clock drink in the office. That made him sweetly nod his head at Marie questioning if she should be bringing in that bottle of Auschentoshan 1978. The only bottle of liquor he kept. There was some trivia about there being only two hundred and eighty-eight bottles made so far. Kopecky had given it to him two Christmas' ago. With the wish that Johnathon enjoyed it as much as the cigars he himself had bought Kopecky. That special bottle of 32 year old scotch.

That bottle he had never opened.

"Lucy. Yes Fine, I can call you Lucy, and I am Johnathon your counsel." Johnathon took a steadying breath after they released hands. Hers held out just so, almost like he might kiss it for her, and his much firmer than he imagined he would take it. So much more anxious as he stood to greet her formally. "Honestly this seems like a persecution attempt. I don't have a copy of your financials, but the allegations against you appear to be little more than a grand conspiracy. I don't have access to what evidence they may have, but the long and short of this appears to be some form of vendetta." He frowned nervously as he watched her. Looking for some form of response, some great tell that would give him a peek into how her mind worked, but all he saw was her attempting to straighten the fabric over the grand swell of her breasts, and adjust her posture with a breath. Possibly one from Boredom. One that made him push his fingers into the mahogany of his desk that single degree further.

"Yes more than ATM's." This woman was distracting and breathtaking, and nothing like the surveillance photo. The photo may have been black and white, but her hair color was wrong to begin with. The woman in this photo held herself differently, and was taller. Even discounting heels, the woman in this photo would be almost giant. Wearing an eight inch platform boot if she were the same as the woman sitting across from him. Pale flesh exposing itself as she crossed her legs, the simple blue fabric doing little more than draw his eye to how it rode up. Where was his secretary with that drink, if ever he required one it was now. As the blue fabric rode her thigh like a surfer on a cresting wave.

Marie arrived then. Bustling smoothly, her lip bitten nervously as she looked to him, and smile perfectly painted on hr face as she turned to their client. A bucket of ice, and a bottle of Jack Daniels next to two glasses. A distinct difference from what he had thought she was bringing. Where had it even come from. He started to make a gesture but her glance stopped him. She gestured and he did as well. That secret signal that he would pour and they would want privacy. Her hand touched his when she approached to leave the bottle on his desk. Marie's fingers soft over his knuckles. Her glance at him almost concerned. Then embarrassed as he removed her hand and left, that little extra sway in her step that she occasionally got, giving his already overcharged libido a sudden jolt. Perhaps she had a date tonight. Perhaps she was teasing. Perhaps, that idle thought of his was one of hers too.

"She's a nice thing, Does she work under the table?"

He would have choked had the drink been to his lips already. He'd just been thinking that again. Of Sweet little Marie, her cute angelic face, framed by her curly blonde hair, smiling up at him. He had just been thinking now of his client under his desk. Those Brunette locks, and how she looked under that blue dress. That old croon of a suggestive radio ad. Ohh Luuuuucy, followed by a throaty chuckle. If she were his secretary, would he resist those urges half as well? A corner of his mind shut off, as he swallowed reflexively, clearly with a slight blush. Clearing his throat, he eyed his client. "I assure you that we pay her on the up and up. No tax evasion here." Hardly what she'd been implying, but double entendre's always had more than one meaning. "Everything is a. Direct deposit these days." Oh yes, So many meanings. He sighed looking at her, before he could continue. Images being banished from his head as he forced himself to minute details from her file.

"Miss McCartney. Lucy. Speaking of finances, I am unsure why this case is on my desk to begin with. I'll be as upfront with you as I can. Going into this case I don't know how you could lose. And I am expensive, even with this being a public defense case. Unless you know something I don't, I am unsure why you want me as your lawyer." But heavens above I want you." It is a privilege Miss." He paused to use her name. To feel personal about this, instead of formal. "Lucy. A privilege between us, privately and personally, about your guilt. Is there something that you want to tell me? Perhaps over that drink?" Johnathon's hands clinked delicate crystal together.

"Because I like things neat myself, but if you'd prefer it rocky. We can work like that too. But it does make the job of defending you a little harder." He smiled. Warmly, openly. For the first time in a long time. "And incidentally would you like ice?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," Lucy sighed softly as he explained his thoughts on the case, nonchalantly taking the news as well as one would take a notification of rain coming their way. "I've made a number of friends over the years, Mister ZImmerman. Johnathon." She smiled at him with that, quirking a brow as they both watched Marie pour the drinks.

His response to her inquiry made that little smirk grow a bit further. "Oh, good. I'd hate for the poor girl to miss out on all the wonderful benefits you must provide..."

He was a curious thing. Pent up and frustrated, she could see that clearly. The reaction to her playful question. The way he seemed ready to burst every time she made a motion that her dress didn't agree with. The pull and resistance to his darling secretary even brushing against him. Oh, poor man. One simply couldn't live that way.

She smiled brightly as he gestured to his desk, trying to steer this wayward conversation back to the reason for her being there. "As you said, Johnathon... Someone wants more than just PIN numbers and debit card information. I'll admit I was a naughty little girl..." She shrugged with that, smirking still. "I'm good with numbers, Mister Zimmerman. Not mathematically... Oh, no. I need every computation device available when it comes to even addition. But give me a number to remember, even once, and I can recall it simply from sight. I like money, Johnathon. There is no person you will ever meet that will tell you they don't like it either. And if they do, they're attempting to give you a Holier than Thou shit spiel. Even the church will drain your bank account. Money makes the world go 'round, darling." She tilted her head slightly, resting her cheek on her shoulder. "I prefer mine to be a continuous spin."

She nodded at the offer of ice for her drink, glancing up at him as she continued. "But. Yes. I've made numerous friends over the last few years, in so many ways. The funny thing about friends, though. As close as they may feel at the time... they can become your enemies so quickly. One little twist of trust..." She shrugged, taking a sip of the drink he had iced for her. "It can all change so fast."