Justice Hunter Read Online Free PDF Page A

directives from the swankiest office in the joint. It was easily nicer than most condos in the city, which certainly included Hunter’s walk-up a few blocks south of Rittenhouse Square. One can only imagine the intimidation factor.
    On the opposite end of the spectrum, Whitman’s subterranean and lower levels were dedicated to the mail-roomers, maintenance, and kitchen staff. These were mostly immigrants and burnouts who’d smoked one too many joints back in the day. By the looks of it, a few were still tokin’. These were the firm’s “untouchables.” Hunter’s office was a modest shoebox of an office on fifteen. That was where the firm’s senior associates passed the days. Dillon and Andy were up there too, with offices along the same corridor, the side with the better city views. Newcomers to fifteen, those associates just settling into their senior status, were relegated to the other side of the floor, which backed up to Market Street.
    After lunch, the three of them passed the security desk, which was manned by an affable black single mother of two, Markita Sims. Markita, sporting the usual navy blazer, was one of those people who always managed to stay upbeat no matter the adversity she was facing. Her smile was downright infectious.
    “Long lunch, boys?” asked Markita, pretending to be nosy but just making friendly conversation. Most of the lawyers who passed her weren’t the world’s most socially adept people.
    “Not long enough,” replied Dillon.
    “Tell me about it,” added Andy, complaining just to be cool. He wasn’t fooling anybody, though. It was obvious he loved every minute of his eighteen-hour days.
    “Hi, Markita,” said Hunter. “Any big plans for the weekend?”
    “I’ve got a date,” she said, perking up.
    Hunter raised his eyebrows. “A date? And who’s the lucky man?” He was genuinely happy for her. Markita had been enduring child custody and support issues with the father of her children ever since Hunter could remember.
    “Not a deadbeat. That’s for damn sure.” She laughed. “Plus he’s kinda cute.”
    “Nice to see you’re finally learning from your mistakes,” jabbed Dillon.
    “Sounds like a real catch,” encouraged Hunter.
    “Not as cute as you, though.”
    Hunter smiled. “You’re far too kind.”
    “Any of the partners back in the house?” asked Dillon, his tone colored by mischief and a fake b-boy style. Dillon was a self-proclaimed information junkie.
    “I haven’t seen any,” said Markita discreetly.
    “You’re the best,” said Dillon. “And I don’t care what raunchy jokes they’re tellin’ about you down in the mailroom.”
    “You’re bad,” she said. Pointing at Dillon, she warned the other two, “I’d stay away from this crazy one. That boy’s crazier than a bedbug.”
    The four of them laughed it off.
    “Have a great weekend,” chimed in Andy, anxious to get back to the grindstone.
    The elevator opened at fifteen, and the triumvirate headed back to their offices. They walked through the hallway, which resembled a corridor in a first-rate museum of modern art. Glass walls encased the perimeter. Industrial material resembling blond hardwood deadened the sound of footsteps. Incomprehensible post-modern art adorned the walls. The administrative staff, which included paralegals and legal secretaries, was clumped together in generously sized workstations. The support at Whitman and the other white-shoe firms in the city was the mortar that held those places together. They knew far more than most associates and made a pretty penny compared with the other firms. A couple—the ones who worked for the top partners—were pulling down six-figures easily.
    Andy, the anxiety unmanageable by this point, broke away. Meanwhile, Dillon followed Hunter, stretching out his break as long as possible. Hunter’s paralegal, Debbie Jones, whose station was just a few feet from his door, typed away on her keyboard. Dillon, acting suave, interrupted