TWENTY-TWO
SEPTEMBER 17
Adam nervously entered the back stairway of the old three-story building on Ventura Blvd. The building was one of the few surviving structures of the 1960s. Most of the street has been replaced by modern steel and glass; upper-end condos over rows of storefronts. Adam made his way down the poorly lit corridor on the third floor and found Suite 332. A faded sign adjacent to the solid wood door said “Melvyn Archer, Attorney at Law.”
Adam opened the door and stepped inside. A man sat at a desk surrounded by stacks of paper in the single room suite. He had black, thinning hair and a small nose, which was challenged to support thick glasses that were much larger than the eyes they covered. “You’re Mason?” he asked.
“Yes,” Adam replied
“Sit down,” Archer said, withou
