Appealed (The Legal Briefs, #3)(7)

It’s not that I don’t like my family, they’re great. But only in small doses. If I spend too much time with them . . . well, you’ll see.

My steps echo through the immense marble foyer. I pass the music room, the front parlor, the conservatory, the library where a portrait hangs of me at five years old, dressed in blue overalls and a cap—looking like the pansy-ass kid in the Dutch Boy paint advertisements but with dark hair. I’ve offered my mother the firstborn child I’ll probably never have to take it down—but she won’t budge. If Stanton, Jake, or Sofia ever lay eyes on it, I’m screwed.

At the back of the house there’s a bustling energy coming from the kitchen that you can feel more than hear—servants shuffling, refilling trays of champagne and caviar and carrying buckets of ice to keep the lobster and oyster table fresh.

Outside, there are tents and tables, a band, and a fully stocked bar with two bartenders. What there isn’t are streamers or shiny balloons, no clowns or magicians—even though this is supposed to be a kids’ party. Because in reality, this kind of party is for the two hundred adults milling about, chatting, shaking hands, kissing cheeks, and stabbing backs.

Yes, I said two hundred—just friends and family.

See, my father is the youngest of eight. My mother, the youngest of twelve. And both sides are in excellent health—they all live for f*cking ever. Which means there’s nieces and nephews, aunts and uncles, great nieces and nephews, and cousins galore—and the gang’s all here.

Besides good health, there’s another trait that’s strong in my family. One might say they’re . . . eccentric. Crazier than shit-house rats works too.

Let’s take my Aunt Bette, for example. She’s the woman in the tan dress, looking up into the branches of that maple tree—talking to the birds like a homeless woman in a park. She has four kids and she doesn’t speak to any of them—not for years. She prefers the company of her racing pigeons. I think she’s won awards.

It’s important to have a purpose in life. Boredom has killed more in my social class than cancer and heart disease combined. Because most people work for things like food, a house, and clothes, and working for those necessities instills drive and ambition. It gives you a reason to drag yourself out of bed in the morning.

But when your necessities are covered—when you literally don’t have to wipe your own ass if you don’t want to—what the hell do you do with yourself?

If you’re stupid, you do drugs, drink, or gamble to occupy your time. Boredom is a disease. Either you cure it doing something you love—or you die trying.

“Hey, cuz.”

Then there’s my cousin Louis, a smarmy, short guy with a bad comb-over. Wealth turns some men into *s, but even if he didn’t have two pennies to rub together, he’d still be an *. He was just born that way.

“Louis.” I shake his hand.

Notice, I don’t ask him how he’s doing—’cause he’s gonna tell me anyway.

“I’m doing great, man. I just closed this sweet real-estate deal. Prime location. I’m gonna tear the building down and turn it into a parking lot. My guy is serving an eviction notice to the old tenants—nuns and orphans or something.” He guffaws like an evil villain. “But that’s business, amiright?”

“Not really.”

He doesn’t hear me—the roar of his narcissism drowns out everything but the sound of his own voice.

I notice his gaze settle on the ass of a brunette to my right. “Wow, Cynthia Beardsley grew up nice.” Then he glances at me. “Aunt Kitty get you married, yet?”

“Nope.”

He chortles again. “We all have to walk the plank someday. I’ll bet you a bottle of Royal Salute 50 she has you engaged by the end of the year.”

“You’re on.” I hold out my hand again and we shake on it. Louis may be a twat, but I’m not above taking a ten-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch off his hands.

I spot my father a few yards across the lawn and head in his direction. Looks-wise I take after him—tall, thick dark hair, blue eyes, and a face that appears fifteen years younger than his actual sixty-five.

We shake hands and he pats my shoulder affectionately. “Son.”

“Hey, Dad.”

He sips his brandy. “How are the criminals these days?”

And here we go.

My father was never a fan of coasting by on the clout of one’s last name. During my teen years, family dinners were like the Spanish Inquisition: What have you contributed today? How have you distinguished yourself? What will you be remembered for? When I started law school, he got it in his head that I should go into politics—become Prosecutor Brent Mason, then Attorney General Brent Mason, eventually Senator Brent Mason—after that it’d be to infinity and beyond.

Instead, I became a criminal defense attorney. And I don’t think the old man’s ever gotten over it.

“They’re defendants, Dad. Not criminals.”

“Is there a difference?”

“I’m sure it makes a difference to the innocent ones.”

Okay, almost none of them are innocent. But people rarely do illegal things just for the sake of doing them—there’s always extenuating circumstances. Evening out the playing field for those who weren’t born with a silver spoon up their ass is what gets me out of bed in the morning.