17
ERIC
I pulled on the smooth brass door handle of the law office, ducked into the blue-green building, and took two stairs at a time to the second floor. The frosted glass of the door before me read, “Sullivan Consultancy,” and I was lucky the owner had agreed to take me on as a client. He was very selective about which cases he represented.
I sat in a leather chair and jiggled my knee, slapping a syncopated rhythm on my thigh with the file folder I’d brought. The good thing about small-town professionals was they got their feet wet in all areas of specialization. Sullivan was no different. After our conversation on the phone, it was clear he had the chops to help me go after Cascadia Oil.
His office smelled like leather, saddle soap, law books, and money.
“This is good,” he told me
