Justice Hunter Read Online Free PDF

Debbie, who was mid-keystroke. Hunter, who after four years knew Debbie better than most, could tell she was annoyed. She couldn’t stand Dillon, but Dillon was too self-absorbed and arrogant to make the connection. “You’re working way too hard for a Friday, Deb.” Debbie looked up begrudgingly and bit her tongue. “Let me know if Hunter is cracking the whip too hard.” Dillon was all about the double entendre. Sexual innuendo.
    “Oh, okay. I’ll be shua to keep that in mind.” Debbie spoke with a noticeable South Jersey accent. She had a pleasant way about her; even her sarcasm sounded polite. She was in her late twenties and attractive, looking like Demi Moore in St. Elmo’s Fire. Even her long, brown hair was crimped, with outdated bangs. Her exceedingly jealous husband, an auto mechanic, had been out on disability ever since Hunter could remember.
    Her radiant blue eyes turned toward Hunter with a calm sense of urgency. “Mr. Mancini stopped by.”
    “He did? Shit.” Hunter gathered his thoughts. “When?”
    “Little after one.”
    Hunter checked his watch: 1:29. What if it’s about the sanctions order? If I didn’t get the injunction in Mediacast? Maybe he was blowing this out of proportion. He tried to stay calm and rational. He’d been at Whitman for about seven years already and had gotten to know Albert Mancini a little. And as far as Hunter knew, Mancini was relatively apathetic about him, which was the way you wanted it with Mancini. Hunter had never seen him get excited about any of the other associates—except for Todd Stevens, who was notorious for being the biggest brownnoser in the firm. But Hunter had seen Mancini lose it with associates. And one mistake with Mancini was all it took. Associates were expendable. There was always someone smarter, with better credentials and better connections, and who was more eager. With about a one-in-fifty shot of making it to partner, the stakes were exceedingly high. “Did he say what he wanted?”
    “Nah. Just said to come up to his office when you’re back. But to call first.”
    “Right.”
    “Big Al,” chimed in Dillon, breaking the tension. Hunter smiled but kept ruminating over why Mancini could’ve possibly made a personal appearance. Mancini had never sought Hunter out directly before. The best thing he could come up with was that Mancini already knew the outcome of the Mediacast hearing.
    “Thanks.”
    Debbie smiled nervously, obviously concerned for him.
    Hunter wanted to be left alone to compose himself, but Dillon followed him into the office anyway. For a firm of Whitman’s stature and wealth, with offices in major cities the world over, one might assume a senior associate under consideration for partner would enjoy at least some degree of luxury. That was clearly not the case, though. In fact, like the seats in coach, these offices were barely functional. Spartan was more like it. They were clearly designed with an eye toward maximizing the billable hour count at the firm. They were not large enough to be distracting, but had just the right amount of density. An oversized, sycamore L-shaped desk dominated nearly half the space. Piles of motions and pleadings covered the main section of the desk, which faced the modern metal and intentionally uninviting guest chair. A flat-panel monitor, computer mouse, and Lexis-Nexis coffee mug rested on the other part. Rows of reddish-brown case files called redwells littered the floor, along with a couple of banker boxes. A light wood bookshelf, filled with manuals and rulebooks, adorned one of the interior walls, making the narrow opening between the wall and the end of the desk damn near impassable.
    Individual expression came in the form of bobbleheads, randomly placed on the shelf at eye level; one was of David Beckham, the international soccer sensation. The others were players with the Philadelphia Flyers, Hunter’s favorite Philadelphia team. There was also a smattering of family photos