Lori Duff Writes

It’s pub day, my friends! Devil’s Defense has officially been released into the world. You can find it online wherever you buy books, and in person at your favorite bookstore or local library. (You may have to ask them to order it, but please do.)

Because you are my loyal subscribers, I’m giving you a special gift—free of charge or anything else, the first chapter of Devil’s Defense. If you want to find out what happens, buy the book! https://www.simonandschuster.com/books/Devils-Defense/Lori-B-Duff/9781647427368

I’ll get back to my regular content next time, I promise. I’m neck deep in excitement right now and I’m Devil’s everything.

CHAPTER ONE

Coach Wishingham pulled a stapled-together pack of papers out of a folder and plopped them on Jessica’s desk. On top of the stack was a telltale pink sheriff’s service of process paper. Ah, so. The famous Coach had been served with a lawsuit.

“Six o’clock in the morning the doorbell rings, and there’s a deputy standing at my door with this nonsense.” Coach’s incredulous tone begged Jessica Fischer to be just as mystified by this turn of events. How could the Great and Powerful Coach Frank Wishingham III be served with a lawsuit in the wee hours of the morning like a regular peasant? Jessica kept her face neutral. “He apologized to me, said there was nothing he could do, he had to do his job. I asked him who I should call. I thought it would be good to have a lady represent me under the circumstances. He said he wasn’t supposed to tell me, but he told me to call you. Said you were a real pistol and would be discrete.”

Jessica’s first reaction was to be surprised that any of the deputies knew her name, much less had a favorable opinion of her. Then, after a second’s thought, she realized she must stand out as one of the only women to make an appearance in Ashton’s courts. She reserved the debate over whether or not being called a “pistol” was a compliment for later.

Jessica knew that in the town of Ashton, Georgia, the order of worship was first Jesus, second America, and third the high school football coach, with the second two interchangeable if it were a winning season. It was often a winning season. And here was the high school football coach, in the middle of a winning season, sitting in her office.

She was relatively new to Ashton, having moved there just three years ago from the Atlanta suburbs. On paper, it had looked easier to open a law practice here. The rents were cheap, the layperson-to-lawyer ratio was good, and she was the only female lawyer in town. She was only just now realizing what that meant in practical terms, and unsure how she felt about it.

Her paralegal, Diane, had knocked on her doorframe about a half hour earlier. “Tripp Wishingham is going to be here in a moment.”

“What’s his deal?” Jessica asked.

Diane pointed a manicured finger at Jessica. “Coach Frank Wishingham the Third, aka Tripp Wishingham, of the Ashton High School football team?”

Jessica sighed. “I don’t care about football. What does that have to do with me?”

“Honey, honey. If you want to make it in this town, you will care about football. Anyway, I don’t know exactly; he just called and said he had an emergency.” 

“Mmph. Everyone thinks it’s an emergency.” She checked the time. Ten minutes before he was supposed to show up. “Well, he’s employed, so his check will probably cash.”

Diane shook her head and left Jessica’s office.

At 4:25 p.m., when she heard Coach come into the building, Jessica refreshed her lipstick and fluffed her hair. She looked at herself in the front-facing camera on her phone, trying out different expressions, seeing which one would make her look older and more knowing than her twenty-nine years would allow. Whatever the Coach’s issue was, if he were as well-known as Diane said he was, representing him could open up a world of business for her. If she could be the lawyer to the cool kids, her business would thrive.

Remember, she told herself, while doing one last check for any remnants of lunch between her teeth, don’t undersell yourself. She knew what other lawyers charged, and she knew she was worth at least that, no matter how odd the numbers felt coming out of her mouth.

Diane brought Coach Wishingham back at 4:40. Jessica could have taken him on time but didn’t want him to think she was just sitting at her desk. She was a busy and important lawyer, wasn’t she? Not just waiting for clients to walk in. 

Coach Wishingham strode in through the door, taking one step for every two of Diane’s. Jessica took an instant dislike to him for the same reason, she supposed, that everyone else liked him. He was a good-looking giant of a man in his midthirties with dark, slicked-back hair and blue eyes that actually twinkled. Twinkled! It might have been the twinkle that Jessica distrusted the most.

Still, Jessica plastered on a smile and held her hand out across her wood veneer desk to shake his hand. She’d need a few more Coaches to hire her before she could afford solid wood furniture. Coach didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would notice particle board, but you never knew.

“Jessica Fischer. Good to meet you.” She made a point of looking him directly in the eye, insisting that she, too, was an alpha dog, despite the fact that she wanted to slink away with her tail between her legs. For all the classes she’d taken in law school, it was her theater training from college that helped her the most in these moments. She wasn’t Jessica Fischer, inexperienced lawyer just on the brink of competence. She was someone else who knew exactly what she was doing, and she owned this stage.

Coach Wishingham leaned forward as he crushed her hand. She was almost bowled over by the combination scent of Right Guard and Old Spice. “Frank Wishingham,” he said in a gravelly baritone. “Everyone calls me Coach. But I guess you know that.”

Then he put his other hand over hers and winked—actually winked!—and continued to hold eye contact with her until she pulled her hands away. A beam of light came in through the window and highlighted the dust swirling in the air around his head.

And now here she was, looking over the petition he’d handed her. She licked her lips and settled back in her chair to put some distance between them. When she looked up, the twinkle in his blue eyes had gone icy. She felt the ice pierce a spot in her forehead.  

“Do you want me to explain this to you?” she asked.

“I get the gist, but yeah.”

“This says that you are the father of a sixteen-year-old girl. I assume you’re aware of this? Her?” She looked up at Coach. His eyes hadn’t thawed any, but he nodded, so she continued.

“The petitioner, a lady named Sarah James, asks to establish legal paternity, which means for the court to declare that you are officially the father, wants you to pay child support going forward and also back child support, and cover her health insurance.”

 “How do you get me out of it?” Coach hooked his hands behind his head and leaned back, crossing his ankle over his knee. His posture seemed studiously relaxed, and his face was pointed toward the ceiling. Jessica couldn’t imagine what was going through his head at the moment. The only way she could have these conversations was by rushing through a dry recitation of facts and then bracing for the reaction. When there was no reaction, like this, it made her nervous. She understood emotion. She didn’t understand this casual flatness.

Without other options, she answered the question she was asked. “Well, the easiest way to get you out of it is if you aren’t this girl’s father. Are you her father?” Jessica heard Darth Vader’s voice in her head. Frank, are you her father? She suppressed a giggle.

“If I am, this is the first I’m hearing about it.”

“Hold up,” said Jessica. “You all both live in this little town for however long, and this morning is the first time anyone tells you that you might be this child’s father?” This was too much.

“I didn’t know shit about it until this morning. They don’t live in Ashton; they live in Parksville. I’m not saying I was a saint sixteen years and nine months ago, but I am pretty sure I never had sex with—what’s her name?” Coach Wishingham took the set of papers from Jessica and read the name off the top. “Sarah James.”

“Do you know who she is?” Jessica asked the question knowing good and well that Coach knew exactly who Sarah James was. He struck her as the kind of guy who had binders full of game stats in his office. 

“Well, yeah. I went to high school with her, but she doesn’t really stand out in my memory.”

“Do you know why she would be saying you are Francesca’s father?”

“I mean, look. I was the quarterback in high school. You know what it’s like around here.” He paused for her nod to his all-but-rhetorical question. She knew it was the answer he expected, so she gave it. “It wasn’t like I had to work too hard to get a girl if I wanted her. I know I’m a big fish in a small pond, but Sarah is living in that small pond, and she wants to land that big fish.”

He didn’t seem the least bit humbled by what he was saying.

“Why now?” Jessica asked. “Do you have any idea why Sarah would wait sixteen years to get child support and health insurance and see you every other weekend for visitation exchanges?”

“Visitation? I don’t want anything to do with this girl!” Coach’s transformation from tabby cat to tiger was so quick Jessica wondered if he’d been body snatched.

“Even if she turns out to be yours?” Jessica had not gone to law school to cheat a teenage girl out of the opportunity to have a father. Then again, who knew if Coach really was Francesca’s father? Maybe he was the victim of some deluded unpopular woman who wanted attention. She reminded herself to keep an open mind. Rent had to be paid, and someone had to represent this guy. It might as well be her. Once they had more facts and everyone had a chance to digest all this new information, maybe they could have a different conversation.

“She’s not mine! Look, I slept with a lot of girls in high school. Find me a football player that didn’t. So sure, I may or may not have been at some party that I don’t remember with this Sarah chick a whole lot of years ago. Does that make me some girl’s father? A father is a whole lot more than some shit I did drunk after a game. I’m hiring you to get me out of this, understand?”

“Got it,” Jessica said. “I’ll see what I can do.” Looking for a way to take control of the conversation, she turned to the back page of the paperwork. “She’s being represented by Eric Crabtree. He’s a friend of mine. Let me call him and see if he’s in the office. He might be able to give some insight into all of this.”

Jessica turned toward the phone and dialed Eric’s number. Breaking eye contact with Coach made her realize how captivating he was. Not necessarily in a good way, but in a powerful way. Turning toward the phone was like breaking out of a tractor beam. Somehow the air felt fresher.

Although she wasn’t above lying to a client to make herself sound more in the know, she hadn’t lied to Coach. She did like Eric, and they did have a good working relationship. They’d never seen each other outside of professional settings, but they’d sat next to each other at plenty of networking events and while waiting for interminable calendar calls in courtrooms. She enjoyed his company. He wouldn’t lie to her. He might not tell her everything, not if it would hurt his client, but what he did tell her, she could count on. Plus, he was a competent lawyer, which made every experience with him something she could learn from, not that she’d ever tell him that fact.

When Eric picked up the phone, she said, “Hey, Eric. I’ve got Coach Wishingham in my office. He got served this morning. I was wondering if you might tell us what inspired Ms. James to file this now.” Jessica listened to Eric. Coach stared at her as Eric gave her the quick and dirty. Jessica could have a good poker face when she needed it, but she decided not to turn it on just now. Let Coach sweat her expressions.

When she hung up, she looked directly at her new client. “Turns out that Ms. James was never really sure who Francesca’s father was. She was at some party near the end of senior year in high school and got very drunk. She passed out on a bed in a back bedroom. A couple of guys came in. You, she thought, and some other guy she thinks was called ‘Jazz.’ Maybe someone else. She’s not sure.”

Coach Wishingham’s dimpled chin was frozen in a Golden Age of Hollywood smile. Jessica wouldn’t be surprised if he’d studied 8×10 black-and-white portraits of Cary Grant and Humphrey Bogart to get that exact blend of charm and impenetrability. He laughed. “Yeah. Jazz O’Reilly. His real name was Jeff. We called him Jazz because when he was about to catch a ball he looked like he was doing jazz hands.” Coach imitated jazz hands and then cocked his hands in a limp-wristed gesture. “Ha! What a faggot!”

So funny, Jessica thought dryly. “Right,” she said, ignoring the floor show. “Sarah says she remembers the guys saying something crude and pulling off her pants and having their way with her. She barely felt it, wasn’t even sure it happened. Then she found herself pregnant, so clearly something happened. A few months ago, she did the Gene Pool genetic testing kit thing on her daughter—you know, those things that everyone is doing to find out their ancestry—and got a hit on you.”

“Damn.” Here, Humphrey Bogart would have stuck his face into his hand cupped around a cigarette lighter. Deprived of that option, Coach licked his thumb and looked down at his boat shoe, polishing off an invisible scuff.

Jessica kept staring at the space where Coach’s eyes would have been. “Damn is correct. Eric said he had a heck of a time convincing her not to file rape charges.”

Coach’s head jerked up. Jessica was surprised to see genuine confusion there. “Rape? I never raped anyone!”

“Didn’t you? Did she give you consent?” Jessica reminded herself to lower her voice and keep it professional.

“Did she say no?” Coach’s palms were up and his hands were spread wide. Jessica tried to remember what her theater teacher called this pose, but it was supposed to convey openness and truth-telling. This entitled asshole really thought all women were his for the taking unless they tried to fight him off. 

Jessica took a long breath through her nose, paused, and counted to seven, then breathed out through her mouth, counting to eight. It helped a little. This was not the time for a lecture on the subtleties of consent. She reminded herself that it was her job to convey her client’s position, not her own.

“Listen, you’re not charged with rape at the moment. Here’s my question. For her to get a hit on you through Gene Pool, you had to have done it too. Did you?”

“Yeah.”

“So? Did you get a hit on her?”

“I have no idea.”

“Can you check? I thought the whole point was to find out who you were related to.”

“I can check,” he said, taking out his phone and poking at it. “I never really looked at it after I found out what I wanted to know. We can trace our family back generations, of course, but there were rumors that my adopted great-grandfather had Black blood in him.” Coach Wishingham whispered the word “Black” in the way that Jessica’s grandmother whispered the word “cancer.” Like it was a horrible thing you could speak into existence by saying it loud enough. “I always thought that was nuts. This genetic thing proved he didn’t. That’s all I wanted to know. I didn’t bother going back to read anything else.”

Coach Wishingham swiped at his phone a few more times, then said, “Hot damn.” He pushed the phone over to Jessica, showing her the notification on the Gene Pool app: “Relative Finder notification: Francesca James. Relation: daughter.”

Jessica gave him a minute to digest the information, then said, “Do you want to think about what you want to do?” This seemed simple from a legal standpoint. He was the father; the law proscribed what he had to do. Emotionally, though, the guy had to be in turmoil, no matter what kind of a dick he was.

“What’s there to think about?” he said, sliding his phone back into his pocket. Jessica arched an eyebrow, as several possible things to think about crossed her mind. “I don’t want a daughter. I sure as hell don’t want a teenage daughter, and I’d rather keep all my money. Can’t I sign over my rights? I want you to fix this for me.”

“I don’t have a magic wand,” said Jessica. “I can’t make all this go away.” They’d only been talking about a half hour or so, but a lot of information had been exchanged. Surely he couldn’t have processed much of it. She needed to figure out how to stall to give him the time to be thoughtful instead of reactionary. “I can, however, see what I can do to minimize the damage. I don’t know how reliable these spit-in-a-cup genetic test things are. We can do a more legitimate DNA test before we take a real stand. Give me a day or so to do some research. In the meantime, brace yourself. This is all public record, and we live in a small town. Someone is going to call you and ask what you think. Promise me that whatever the question, you say your lawyer advised you not to comment on pending litigation, but that you wish nothing but the best for Francesca no matter what happens. Refer them to me for specifics.”

As soon as Jessica mentioned the possibility of publicity, Coach seemed to jump back into his own skin, or at least the skin of his own making. The matinee idol light was back in his eyes. “I’m not afraid of talking to reporters. I talk to them all the time. They love me!” 

“I don’t give a crap.” Jessica had to let him know on the front end that she was here to get the job done and was impervious to his charms. “They love you because you win football games. This has nothing to do with football. Reporters love a good scandal, and there is nothing that the press loves more than seeing a hero fall. Trust me on this one. Say nothing.”

Lori Duff

Lori B. Duff is an award-winning author who practices law on the side.  Her latest book, “If You Did What I Asked in the First Place” was awarded the Gold Medal for humor in the Foreword INDIES awards in 2019. You can follow her on Twitter at @LoriBDuff and on Facebook. For more blogs written by Lori, click here. For more information about Lori in general, click here. If you want Lori to do your writing for you, click here. If you want Lori to help you market your book, click here.