War-N-Wit, Inc. - The Witch Read online

  War-N-Wit, Inc.

  By

  Gail Roughton

  ISBN: 978-1-927111-88-8

  Books We Love Ltd.

  (Electronic Book Publishers)

  192 Lakeside

  Greens Drive Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2

  Canada

  http://bookswelove.net

  Copyright 2012 by Gail Roughton

  Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright 2012

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  Chapter One

  No lightning bolt streaked from the sky the day my life as I knew it began to end. There was no warning at all. Nothing. There I was, sitting at my desk, minding my own business, doing my job. My official job title is "legal assistant." The more exotic sounding title is paralegal. In the old days when folks called jobs what they actually were, the title was "legal secretary." Me? I answer to any of the above. Or just to Ariel. That's my name. Ariel Anson.

  Now, I know the general public thinks a law office is an exciting place, full of fascinating cases and esoteric points of law highlighted with flashes of legal genius, something different every day. Not. Trust me on this. You seen one accident case, you seen 'em all. And corporate law? Business law? Wills and estates? Oh, man, you don't even want to go there. Domestic law? Right. The only thing worse than a divorce case is an estate fight. At least folks involved in a divorce are supposed to hate each other whereas a fight over Daddy's will? Oh. My. God.

  Anyway, that's what I was doing. Just minding my own business in the course of my humdrum day and doing my job at the century-old, prestigious central Georgia law firm of Baker, Lawson, Abercrombie & Hunter, where the partners walk around in blissful ignorance of the fact the firm is referred to in legal circles as BLAH. All us legal assistants think that's a hoot.

  I was the only legal gal who worked for three partners. Some of the girls had just one, most had two. Sort of gave me a certain mystique of extreme competence, you know? In all honesty, most of the time the three attorneys I had were cakewalks, though I wasn't about to announce such to the powers-that-be lest I end up with four attorneys to babysit. It all depended on who the three partners were. And mine were hand-picked, a luxury I had because I was good, good enough after eleven years in the business to pick and choose the attorneys I worked for. Diplomatically, of course. So diplomatically that nobody knew that but me. And my little sister.

  Stacy, whose given name is Anastasia (our parents swore they hadn't smoked a lot of pot during the early years of their marriage but given our names, we didn't believe them), was following in her big sister's footsteps more or less by accident. I'd gotten her the office runner job one year during her summer break and she'd gotten the legal-eagle bug. She worked down at the other end of the firm for Calhoun Spencer, one of the more senior partners who specialized in insurance defense. Believe me, nobody working for Cal could have handled anybody else. I knew. I'd done it for six years myself before impending carpal tunnel syndrome had me scrambling to move to another location within the four hallowed halls of BLAH. I still felt bad about hi-jacking Stacy into my vacated seat but she claims she's forgiven me. I still have my doubts about that sometimes.

  For the past three years, I'd been taking care of Ashton Davis, litigator 'par excellence' and the only attorney in the firm who liked criminal work, Mark McCray, who specialized in complex business litigation, and Anderson Halloway. Anderson was 74, the number one name on the letterhead. He did pretty much whatever the hell he wanted to.

  Ash and Mark, being in their mid-thirties and thus computer literate, did a lot of their own typing because it was easier for them to think and type than to think and dictate. A generation thing. Since I didn't have to be their typist, I was free to organize, clean-up and grind out those standard, rote legal pleadings the public thought attorneys drafted and everybody in the legal field knew damn well the secretaries did. Anderson was a different story. He could barely turn on a computer and used his to check the stock market. In his current exalted position and with his history—the man had an unbelievable trial record—he only took the cases he wanted and spent a lot of time at his mountain house in North Carolina and even more at his beach condo at Hilton Head.

  All in all, I considered my set-up ideal and considering the six years I'd spent in halls of the firm back forty turning out hundred page pleadings for Cal Spencer, I didn't feel guilty at all when I grabbed a spare thirty minutes or an hour to indulge in my private hobby of writing. I'm a closet writer. I write books and put 'em in the closet. Nobody ever suspected except Stacy, of course, because nobody believed that with three attorneys I had time to breathe, let alone write a book.

  And so the earth was turning in its proper orbit and all was right with my world when I returned from lunch that fateful day after meeting my fiancé, Scott Newton, at a local sandwich shop. Okay, Scott wasn't what you'd call glamorous or exciting, but he was steady. An upcoming CPA with a good practice that was getting better. Good husband material. Good father material. Future Little League coach. I'd had exciting and it hadn't worked out well. Steady was fine. Steady was good. If I could just teach the man how to kiss. Well, time to work on that, I supposed.

  I stuck my head in Mark's door to check on the progress of a new complaint arising out of a case we'd gotten from a firm in Philadelphia because three Georgia corporations were involved. Mark's my complex commercial litigator.

  "So—you ready for me to file?" I asked. Since this was a federal case, all pleadings were filed electronically. Usually that's great, since it circumvents time deadlines of racing to the courthouse before it closes at 5:00 o'clock, not so much when you're racing the clock at 11:45 p.m. to get something filed before the date changes at midnight. Oh, yeah, I'd been there, done that, and Ashton Davis owed me big. It's always nice to have something to hold over your attorneys' heads.

  "Yeah." Mark pushed his chair back and sighed. "But they want it served yesterday. Get the summons and all the other stuff ready, okay? I got the name of a good process server from one of my buddies down in South Georgia. Dude we got to serve lives in Albany. Already called him and he says he can get it served this afternoon. Get it together for me and then shoot it to me too so I can get it down to him."

  "Sure," I said, and proceeded to do so, which was accomplished in something under twenty minutes, with the majority of the time on line spent in negotiating the credit card payment for the filing fees. That part was always a bitch. Then I hit "send" and shot the whole kit-and-caboodle over to Mark. Not as efficient as just letting me send it directly to the process server, but whatever kept my guys happy, thereby making them keep me happy, was fine with me.

  "Thanks!" floated back down the hall from two doors up. I sat in front of Anderson Holloway's office. If Mark and/or Ash lasted till they were 74, they could fight over which one of 'em got their secretary in front of their office. "Hey, check my voicemail if you're away from your desk, okay, make sure that complaint's served? I'm leaving in a minute. Jenny's got something at school this afternoon."

  "Sure. What's your server guy's name?"

  Mark came down and stood in front of my desk. "Name of the company's Warnwit, Inc. I sort of assumed his, too. First name's Chad, I think. Call me when he calls, and email—"

  "Philadelphia," I said, scribbling "Chad Warnwit" on the steno pad I kept by my phone. Nobody'd really used a steno pad in 40 years, but I did like the sp
lit lined pages and spiral flip top for keeping notes together. "Yeah, got it, run along now."

  "Thanks, Ariel!"

  "No problem," I said. With Mark gone and Anderson at Hilton Head, and Ash in the library trying to back-track the financial goings on in an ugly estate fight, my afternoon was gravy. I pulled up my latest venture into fantasy land and reminded myself not to zone out to the extent I didn't hear the phone.

  Two hours later I did hear the phone when it rang, but it was a near thing. Mark's line. I pulled my brain back into the real world. Oh, yeah. The case from Philadelphia. Probably Mark's South Georgia process server.

  "Mark McCray's office," I said crisply.

  "But not Mark McCray, I'm guessing."

  "No, sorry. Just his secretary."

  "Well, I'm not."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Sorry. I'm not sorry you're not Mark McCray. Though I do need to let him know his guy's served."

  His voice surprised me. It wasn't what I'd expected from a South Georgia process server, there was no real southern accent, Georgian, South Georgian or otherwise. Rather, it was accentless, the accent of Florida.

  "Mr. Warnwit?"

  "That's the name of the company. Mine's Garrett."

  "As in Pat?" I asked before I could stop myself. My brain was a hodgepodge of collected bits of totally useless information, including the name of the lawman who'd brought down Billy the Kid by allegedly shooting him in the back. I grimaced to myself. He'd think I was crazy. Nobody but Stacy ever got my private wise-cracks.

  "As in Chad. Can't say as I've brought in anybody comparable to Billy the Kid lately. Haven't shot anybody in quite a while, either, and never in the back that I recall. That'd cause too many legal problems."

  Some damn. He got it!

  "How reassuring. So, you got our boy for us, did you?"

  "At 16:12 hours. Sorry, that's –"

  "Four twelve. Got it."

  "By service on the wife as she was pulling out of the driveway to soccer practice with the two girls. Casey Douglas, 5-7, 145 pounds, blonde, glasses, not contacts, social security—"

  I laughed in delight. "Did you copy her driver's license, too?"

  "I always write down a description so there's no question of who got served. And I always have them sign the Return of Service, too, so they can't claim they weren't really served. Got some pictures of the house. If you're going after a judgment, there's money there, very up-scale neighborhood. Pulled the property assessment from the Tax Commissioner's Office, I'll send it back with the return of service when I get back to the office. To you or Mark McCray?"

  "Either," I said. "You already have Mark's, though."

  "Yeah, but being male I like you better."

  I laughed again and gave it to him. And then, because I couldn't stop myself, I asked, "If your name's Garrett, who's Warnwit?"

  "Not Warnwit, like a name or one word. It's W-a-r Capital N W-i-t," he spelled out. "War-N-Wit. Inc., to be official."

  "That's unusual. Who's War?"

  "Oh, that's me."

  "Who's Wit?"

  "Silent partner. But I'm expecting an appearance real soon now. Much sooner than I'd figured, I think."

  "Oh, I see," I said, not seeing at all. "Well, that was great service. Well above and beyond the call of duty."

  "Just earning my lunch with you at Carrabba's," he said cheerfully. "Keep me in mind if anybody needs to find somebody. Or any other type of PI service. I'm based in Quitman, right above the Florida line, center of the state, real near I-75. I do Alabama, Florida and Georgia. You'll get your money's worth. I don't deliver, no charge."

  "For real? How do you stay in business?"

  "I'm good. Send you some cards and fliers with the bill."

  "For sure. I'll spread the word. Thanks for your help."

  "Anytime," he affirmed, and hung up.

  I stared thoughtfully at the phone. Damn. Intelligence. Humor. "Just earning my lunch with you at Carrabba's," he'd said. Nothing like a charming flirt who knew how to do it perfectly to make a girl's day. I had no idea in hell that my life as I knew it had just begun to end.

  Chapter Two

  October moved to November and the beginning of what was usually a busy time in a law office. I'd never understood it, never will, but let Thanksgiving and Christmas and year-end loom on the calendar, and damn near every attorney I've ever known decides to start working cases they haven't touched in six months. My current three weren't so bad about that, especially Anderson, who certainly didn't plan to be in the office much at all during either Thanksgiving or Christmas, but there're always attorneys on the other side of the case.

  True to form, one of Anderson's car accident insurance defense cases reared its head—or rather, the plaintiffs' attorneys did—and started yelling for the deposition of the driver's passenger. A deposition is where the attorneys for both sides get in the same room with whichever witness whose story they want in front of a court reporter and swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, just like in court, except there's not a judge.

  Sounds easy, I know. Not. Depositions are a pain in the ass to schedule under the best of circumstances since nobody's ever available at the same time. Every deposition has to be scheduled at least five times. It's a law. This one was worse. We didn't know where the hell our insured driver's passenger was. We did know if we found said insured driver's passenger, she probably wasn't going to talk to us since ex-boyfriends and ex-girlfriends tended to be pissy. Which meant she'd talk plenty if the plaintiffs' attorney found her first.

  Plaintiffs and their attorneys had one thing in common. They really liked to settle their cases near Christmas. It's like extra money from Santa Claus. And this particular plaintiffs' attorney was a bitch to deal with, both in gender and personality. Had a good case, though, and she knew it.

  "Well, we just have to find that passenger," Anderson pronounced in typical Anderson fashion, leaning back in his chair and gesturing grandly. "Get some of the young boys on the internet looking."

  "We've already done that, Anderson, they can't."

  "Sure they can. Anybody can be found in this day and age—"

  I put my brain in neutral and let it cruise and hit on the solution to the problem at the exact time he finished up with his standard, "—and all we can do is all we can do. And if we can't find her, then we might just have to hire a private detective. 'Cause I can't let Sandy Rozier find her before I do and talk to her without me, our insured says she hates his guts. It'll crucify us, policy limits here we come, get out the checkbook."

  I chewed my lip a bit. "Actually," I said "I've got just the man for the job. But I'm not sure how much it'll cost."

  "Well, let's see. Insured in this case is a doctor. With an umbrella policy. Sandy Rozier's got three plaintiffs in that car, one of 'em's an eggshell plaintiff. We got over a million dollars sitting on the table. I don't think a PI'll cost that much. Whoever it is, get me the number. And any last known addresses we have. Handle it!"

  "I'm on it!" I exclaimed, fleeing his office and running for the file. And one of Chad Garrett's cards, patiently waiting in my desk drawer.

  I flew back in and deposited all on Anderson's desk. Ash's line started ringing so I missed Anderson's conversation with can't beat the price Chad Garrett, but hung up just as Anderson called through the door.

  "Hey! Here's the email address. Send him the addresses we have, he's waiting on it!"

  I went in to collect the material, sat back down, proceeded to forward it to [email protected] and was rewarded with an almost immediate reply: "Got it. When I find her, do I use kid gloves or brute force?"

  Cocky much? "If you find her," I sent back, resisting the urge to italicize or underline the 'if', "kid gloves please. You did a job for us, well, me and another attorney, a few weeks back. I told Anderson how you went above and beyond, don't know if you remember it or us. Did Anderson explain she's probably going to be a fairly hostile witness and won't be very co
operative?"

  The response came within seconds. "I remember you. When I find her," it read, and he hadn't resisted the urge to italicize, "I'll have on my best pair of kid gloves and charm her right into cooperation. Report later."

  Well, alllllriiighty, then! I smiled and turned to the massive pleadings indexes waiting to be updated in one of Anderson's medical malpractice defense cases. I wouldn't hear from him for a few days. I gave it a fifty-fifty shot either way. And wondered how his voice would sound if he had to call in and concede defeat. I didn't think that happened often.

  The email came in something slightly under an hour. "Got her. Back at the Shellman Bluff address you had for her before she flipped up to Ohio for a while, but she's pretending real hard not to be. Headed there now. I'm about two hours away and then I'll have to work the charm. Please make sure I have a phone number that'll get Mr. Halloway. I'll put her on the phone with him."

  Holy. Hell.

  "Anderson!" I called through the door, while hitting the reply button to supply Anderson's cell number. "He's got her! Be sure you keep your cell phone with you and on."

  Anderson came and went with impunity. And he used his cell phone like he used his computer. Only when he wanted to. He was forever leaving it in a coat pocket or turning it off. His voice mail wasn't even set up. It was already four o'clock. By the time Chad of War-N-Wit had her on the phone, he'd be long gone. It was unusual for him to be here this late. "Says he'll have her on the phone with you in probably three hours."

  "Well, if he's got her, why doesn't he just give me the number and let me call her?"

  "Had a lot of luck with that so far, have you?" I asked. "You wanta' spook her so he'll never convince her to talk to you?"

  "Hell, no!"

  "Then let the man do the job we hired him for, why don't you?"

  Anderson came out of his office with his coat, grumbling mildly as he passed my desk.