The more I think about this case, the more I seethe with anger and compassion and just plain... this isn't right... not just because my client is so obviously wronged, but because his landlord is so obviously a slimy piece of shit.  And so is his attorney. I am embarrassed that I even know the card carrying, dues paying member of the Florida Bar Association that agreed to represent that man.

Carlos Sanchez is a hard working father of three. In his late thirties, he and his wife have lived in the US their whole lives. Not that it matters, because they speak Spanish in their household, so the accents are thick and the adherence on tradition is tight-families take care of each other, no matter what.

In my first Discovery meeting with my new client, he recounts his story of multiple run-ins with the manager of Bay Ridge View, the midrise apartment building where he and his family have lived for the last three years. Since the beginning Phillip Bailey has given Carlos trouble-raising the rent mid-year, refusing to fix broken appliances, leaks and machinery in the building and filing multiple noise ordinance violations with the police department, citing ‘neighbor complaints'. But when Carlos inquired with his neighbors about such complaints, none of them knew what he was talking about-they'd never complained about noise from the Sanchez home.

"I'm not saying I'm any kind of angel," Carlos says, his brown eyes wide and pleading. He glances at his wife, who clings to an arm and nods in agreement. "You know, we have three young children, we have a lot of family and sometimes life is louder than we would like, but on nights that we were just home with the kids, watching TV and reading stories before bed, the police would show up and want to look around and investigate. It was happening all the time."

I furiously take notes even though I am recording the session so I can listen to it again and again and again. I finish scribbling a sentence, then look up at the Sanchezes and nod, prodding them to continue.  "So what happened that made you file the housing discrimination complaint?"

"Well-" Carlos shifts in his seat. "It's like this, you know? My sister, she married a man that beats her. It's bad. And we tried to help her but she would never leave because she has two children with him. But one night it got very, very bad and..." Carlos raises his shoulders and spreads his hands in a what could I do? gesture. "She ended up at our place. She was crying and scared. The kids were crying. I told her she could stay for a few days..."

Gloria Sanchez picks up where Carlos leaves off. "That pig Emilio comes over to our house to get his wife. He bangs on our door, he's yelling and screaming, drunk off his ass, pounding on the door. Finally Carlos opens the door to get him to stop, but he forces his way inside and he goes right for Christina and he tries to choke her ... the babies are seeing this... it's just so terrible...."

Carlos picks up again. "We called the police on Emilio and he was arrested. My sister and her kids stayed two nights at our place. Our lease says we can have overnight guests for a period of two nights. We were well within the terms-but we got a notice from Mr. Bailey that we had thirty days to vacate due to lease violations.

"When I called him to have a discussion about it, he said he was not going to have a bunch of... spics sharing one apartment and everyone living cheap on his dime."

My eyebrows lift at the way Carlos spits out the racially charged word and I can only imagine how it feels to hear it.

"So I told Bailey, it's just my family living in the apartment. My sister came to visit, but we moved her and her children to my mother's house outside Orlando and she'll be staying there. There would be no more issues with guests. No one was living in our home that was not on the lease. But..." he shrugs. "He don't want to hear it. He says too many police complaints on file and when Emilio came he did damage to the door-he almost broke it down-and we are responsible for the damage, too. He says we have thirty days to get our dirty asses out of his building or he will have us evicted."

"It's not like we have no place to go," says Gloria. "We have family and friends that would take us in, like we took in Christina. But it's the principle. We did nothing wrong and what he's doing, I am sure, is illegal. And if he can do it to us, he will do it to the next family."

"You are most certainly right, Mrs. Sanchez. This is illegal. It is discrimination by definition, on its very face. Not only is he breaking housing laws but he's denying you a basic civil right. We are going to fight him and we are going to right this wrong."

"Do you know how long it usually takes to fight a case like this? We... don't have much money and I'm worried that we will have to move if there isn't a decision before-"

I hold up my hands and give the Sanchez couple a small smile. "Let me give you a bit of good news. We get a grant from the Florida Housing Authority so that we can handle these cases. Our fee will be subsidized in part by that grant. We would be happy to work with you on the balance-our accounting department can work out a payment plan that won't hurt too much.

"As for how long it takes?" I shrug, tossing up my hands. "It varies. I've had some cases settle very quickly. I've had some drag for months. I had a case that went on for a year. The good news is that this discrimination complaint halts any eviction proceedings. That's a legal process he has to file. He's barred from doing that until this complaint has been settled because it will look like retaliation if he does."

I see relief cross both of their faces, and they sink back into their chairs. "So, let's talk about our game plan."

A few hours later, I'm in my office transcribing notes for my time sheet.  Work in law is billable in increments of .10 - one tenth. I am required to bill at minimum 1,800 hours annually. Firms like Perry consider associates who bill under 2,000 hours a year to be slackers, so they bill for bullshit like ‘File Review', which is nothing more than having a file open to review it. I don't personally bill for thinking about a case unless it's within the confines of a strategy session like earlier this morning with the Sanchez's.

I feel sorry for them, sure. But I also feel angry for them. They're in the prime of their lives, living the American dream, providing a good life for their children. I've passed the building they live in-it's in a nice area, surrounded by suburbs and small businesses. There's a nice neighborhood feel, with a park a few blocks away. I always see people playing Frisbee and walking dogs and riding bikes. I'd want to raise my children in such pleasant surroundings. Too bad the building owner is a scum bucket.

"What a douche," I mutter to myself, listening back on the recorded session and adding to my notes.

"Who's a douche?" I hear behind me. I turn to see Tyler standing in the doorway of my office. It's either that the room is really small or Tyler is really big but he seems to take up so much space.

"Hey, kiddo," I say, an old nickname for him slipping out of my mouth. I instantly grin, because I'd forgotten we agreed that I wouldn't call him that inside the building. "I mean... Ty. What's up?"

"Nothing," he says, stepping into my office and around my desk, which takes up most of the space. He settles into the only other chair in the room. "Who's a douche?"

"Oh. The landlord in this case I'm working on."

"The one I can't know anything about because my brother is opposing counsel?"

"The one and the same," I say, nodding. "I just can't risk him hearing about our strategy. I like the element of surprise to be kept intact."

"I would never say anything," Tyler says, but he doesn't seem hurt at the insinuation that such a thing could happen. "I get it though. Better to be safe."

"Exactly. So what are you working on right now?"

"Besides carting shit to the basement? My first case."

"Really?" I squeak.

He blushes, his cheeks glowing red. "Yeah. It's a little thing. I only have to go to court once with the client. Easy."

"Easy isn't bad money at all, Counselor." I raise my hand and he slaps my palm in a high-five.

"Yeah, I'm feeling good. So..."  He grins. "How's that wedding planning going?"

I groan. "I really, really hate your brother. I hope you don't mind me saying so." He chuckles, as he often does. "He did come up with a good location idea but I'm not admitting to him yet that I like it. His head will blow up so big he'll never get out of his house."

"You guys have such a funny relationship."

"We do not have a relationship. We haven't had a relationship in eighteen years."

"I get that, but...you're still around each other all the time."

I start packing up my notes and files and laptop to take them home for the weekend. Friday night, I am living the wild and swinging single life-taking work home. "Not by any of my doing, I promise you. If I had my preference, I'd never see him again in life."

"I don't believe that."

"Oh, kiddo. Believe it. He follows me around, not the other way."

"But you've never like... moved away to get away from him."

"Why should I? I stay in Orlando because of my parents." 

Even after high school, I couldn't imagine leaving. I was all my parents had and I wasn't quite ready to leave home. I was comfortable and they could send me to UCF for cheap. By the time I knew I was going to study law, my dad's Parkinson's started to show and that put an end to any idea of my leaving Orlando. I draw the line at living with them, but I can't see moving far away. Every morning I call to talk to my mother and get a report on my dad. I can do that from anywhere, sure. But when she needs me, it's so important to me to be minutes away.

I continue, "It's not my fault he won't move away, either. And don't you start with that he loves you bullshit. You should hear the shit he says to me. There's no love anywhere near his cold, dead heart for me."

"Alright, I won't start with it again. I'm right, though. I know I am."

"You might want to inform him that he's in love with me. Maybe he'll be nice to me."

"I told him, once. That I thought he was in love with you."

I stop dead in my tracks, my veins going cold for some reason. "And?"

"He almost decked me. He was so pissed off, he got all red. My mom got mad, told me to stop egging him on." Tyler giggles. "I thought it was funny."

"Yeah, well. When you're in the middle of it, it isn't." I pick up my bags packed full of material to review over the weekend and inch toward the door. "Time to go, or I'm locking you in."

I spend most of Friday night and early Saturday morning reviewing the recorded session, transcribing the conversation, taking notes and doing research into Phillip Bailey. I find quite a bit of information on him, namely that this isn't his first discrimination case. This should be a slam dunk case.

Should be. And if I wasn't up against JC, I'd be way more confident in that assertion, but since I am up against him, I still don't know how this is going to turn out.

My apartment is a simple one bedroom with an extra alcove-fancy word for empty space-that I've turned into a small office. I've shoved a desk into the corner, a few plastic crates for filing, a lamp and everything I need to have a home office-a landline and printer/scanner/fax/copy machine. If I need to, I can work from home, which I do on occasion.

Though I have the office set up, I often do a lot of work sitting on the floor in front of the television, my work spread across the coffee table. My laptop is plugged in and sitting to my left, all my notepads to my right, my files directly in front of me. This position means I cramp up a lot so I have to get up and walk around, grab some water, make some coffee. I decide, around 9am Saturday, to get out of the apartment and clear my mind with a run before it gets hot.

I don't want to make it sound like I'm really athletic, because I'm not. Stress is my cardio and the last few years, going up against and losing to JC every case has been stressful. I'm sure I'm about to lose about five pounds planning this wedding with him. Anyway, running forces me to concentrate on not dying, therefore I am not thinking about work.

I change into a tank top and yoga pants, socks and sneakers, grab my phone, ear buds, ID, debit card and keys and shove them into a small sack that attaches to an armband with Velcro. I hop in the car and drive five minutes to a local city park.

I hit the trail and have long, calming run. The air is clear and clean, the flowering trees and shrubs give me some pretty scenery to focus on while I heave and pant for a few miles.  Since I'm out, I decide to run some errands, then head back home to work more. We have a conference with JC and Phillip Bailey next week. I want to be ready.

I dip into Publix, a local grocery store, grab a basket and head to the snack aisle first. I pick up a bag of tortilla chips and a jar of medium salsa. I'm eyeing nacho cheese dip, but I'm not sure I should get both. I reach for it, pick it up, then shake my head and consider putting it back. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and I sniff a familiar scent in the air-wood and musk. Before I can turn around, I hear him.

"Evangeline."

I sigh and my shoulders drop. Fuck. Must I see this man every goddamn day of my life? Until I die? Jesus.

"Joshua," I say, without turning around. I put the nacho cheese back.

"Good morning," he says, sounding chipper and cheerful. I glance at him and he looks presentable for 10am- jeans, a black button down shirt, far enough open at the collar that I can see tufts of chest hair. If I was looking that hard. Which I'm not. He smells good, like... like he hasn't been home yet from his date the night before. I am instantly disgusted. For what reason, I'm not sure. 

"Grabbing a few snacks for the day, are we?"

"Can't get anything past you, Counselor."

"You don't eat this crap all the time do you? I mean, you can't. You look too good to eat this crap all the time."

I turn to find him eyeing me, head to toe. It reminds me of that day in seventh grade, when he'd made the discovery that I was a girl and he couldn't stop staring. And then he told me I was hot. Except back then, I liked it.

"What do you want? I'm busy." I want to turn around and walk away but that would leave him staring at my ass and as much as I don't give a shit about him, I don't want commentary about my ass in the snack aisle at Publix. So I stand there with an irritated facial expression and a slight tilt to my head hoping that incites him to leave.

It doesn't. He smiles, almost laughing. "See, here's me being nice to you. Here's you treating me like shit. I'm just saying, Evangeline, you reap what you sow."

"You called me a feminist bitch last week. I don't think you're a nice person."

"I was emotional. You insulted my manhood. I can be nice."

"I beg to differ."

"I bet you beg to do a lot of things."

"Not what you're thinking of. I've never had to beg for it. How about you, Chasez? Ever had to beg?"

"You and I both know I've never had to beg." He stares at me and I stare at him and unlike a few nights ago, I refuse to look away. JC finally breaks his gaze, laughing.

"Tell you what. Put this shit back and I'll take you to breakfast. You've gotta eat better than this."

"No thank you."

"Come on, what else you have to do? Go home and do more research? Bill more hours?"

"I am in the middle of a case right now. One I am going to win because I will be prepared. Unlike opposing counsel who's trolling the grocery store right now."

"I wouldn't worry about the case, really. No way are you going to win. So relax. Let's go eat."

He reaches into my basket and starts restocking my groceries-the chips and salsa are back on the shelf and I am staring, incredulously at him.

"I don't want to eat with you, JC. And I'll thank you not to pass judgment on my snacks." I reach for the bag of chips but he grabs for my hand and doesn't let go. He gently begins to pull me down the aisle.

"I said-"

"I know what you said, but come on anyway. I'm hungry; you're clearly hungry. You were considering nacho cheese. We'll go to Grand Luxe. You love that place."

I feel shitty about it but I stop protesting. I do love Grand Luxe Café-it's sort of like Cheesecake Factory but a step above. Our families used to go there all the time, at least once a month. I would be the first person in the car if my dad mentioned it. JC's mom Karen loved that place as well so my mom would always call down the street to see if her best friend wanted to come along. And maybe bring JC to keep Angie company?

We'd get our own booth usually since our parents would fill a booth by themselves. We could talk and laugh and eat together. After we started dating, we'd go there on our own all the time, or with Nick and Morgan. It's still one of my favorite places to eat.

But did I really want to put up with JC just for chocolate chip pancakes?

Apparently so, because a half hour later, I am sitting on one side of a booth and he is on the other side, unwrapping a straw and dunking it into a glass of ice water, absentmindedly reviewing the menu. "It's almost lunch time," he mumbles. "Maybe I'll get their new ranch chicken sandwich. What are you having?"

I don't even look at the menu. I can smell the pancakes a mile away and those are what I want. "My usual," I say, sipping the coffee that the waitress has set in front of me and I've doctored with cream and sugar.

"Chocolate chip pancakes?" He raises an eyebrow. "See, doesn't that sound better than chips and salsa?"

"Now, yes. At 3am, I am going to want chips and salsa."

"At 3am you should be thinking about other things besides food."

"Try not to be a pig right now, okay?"

"What you call being a pig is just me being myself. Anyway, I was going to call you. Did you look up the resort in St. Lucia?"

I nod. I had looked up the resort and called their coordinator several times. I hadn't even bothered to look at any other destinations-I was mesmerized by everything in the brochure, on the website, in the reviews on the The Knot's Destination Wedding forum.

"And?" He prods.

"Sounds good to me. The only thing I'm worried about is the timing. October is too soon."

"I don't think so. If we announce it now and schedule it for late October, there's four months for people to get ready. Nick's paying for everything at the resort, so they just have to get there. Surely people can save a few hundred for a flight to the Caribbean."

I hate it when he's right, but he's right. "Plus, they do a lot of arranging and planning. We just have to tell them what we want."

"Right. So, we're decided on a destination and a month?" Grudgingly, I nod. JC pumps a fist in the air. "We made a decision without killing each other! Aren't you proud of us?"

"One down, like a thousand to go." I sip my coffee, feeling decidedly less celebratory.

"You're so negative, Evangeline. When did you get so anti-everything?"

"First of all, please stop calling me Evangeline. I am asking nicely and saying please-"

"You used to love for me to call you that," he says quietly, watching the ice in his glass bob around his straw.

My mind shoots back to high school. The bell rings and the hallways are ordered chaos, with kids going in every direction, locker doors opening and slamming closed, books  and papers flying everywhere. In the din and craziness of moving from class to class, JC would always step behind me at my locker, slip an arm around my waist and whisper, "Hey, Evangeline," in my ear. Then he would drop a kiss on my cheek and make his way down the hall to his own locker.

I loved that. Every time. Every single time. After we broke up, it was the thing about him I missed the most-the way he said my name. Truthfully, every time he calls me Evangeline, it makes me miss when we were young and in love.

"I no longer love for you to call me that. Please stop. Secondly, I'm not anti-everything. I don't like you very much and I don't trust you."

JC is quiet for a few seconds, then opens his mouth and I am sure something surly and hateful is about to come out of it. He surprises me though by saying, "I'll work on calling you Angie, alright? Forgive me if I slip."

I gulp, shocked at his acquiescence. He is full of unexpected twists and turns.

We chat a little more about the wedding, deciding to get on a conference call with the resort early the next week. First, we had to break the news to Nick and Morgan about when and where they were getting married, so they could have invitations printed and mailed.

"Have you thought about Nick's Bachelor party?"

"A little. You? About Morgan's?"

I shake my head. "Not even for a second. I mean, you know Morgan. She's so sunshine and Pollyanna and... purple unicorns. "I stop and we laugh together. "I don't even know what to do for her. She'd be happy with a Bachelorette Tea."

"That sounds boring."

"I know."

"We could combine them. Like a co-ed party. We plan one party, we kill two birds."

I shake my head. "I know you and I know what kind of parties you throw." I recall a story I heard about Keith's Bachelor party involving a naked guy, a mechanical bull and a TASER. I shudder. "And I don't want to look at half naked women stripping for Nick."

"So we have some half naked men too. For the ladies."

I laugh. "JC..."

"What? It's a good idea!"

"Maybe for our other friends," I say, still giggling. "I don't know about Nick and Morgan. Let's... let's keep thinking on it. We have some time."

"Fine," he says, picking up his sandwich and taking an enormous bite. We have a joke in our house that JC could eat a sandwich in three bites. Food disappears around him quickly.

I eat my pancakes, savoring every delicious bite. I don't even think there's syrup left on the plate when I push it away. "Thank you for breakfast," I say, when I've wiped crumbs from my mouth and finished my coffee. "I haven't been here in awhile."

"Really?" He picks at crumbs of a sesame seed bun on his plate and pushes it away. "I come here all the time. Lots of memories in this place."

"Yeah." My conversation with Tyler comes to mind and before I can stop myself I ask, "So...why didn't you ever move away? You could have gone anywhere. I would have left, if I were you."

"Would you?" I watch his Adam's apple bob as he reaches for his water and sucks down a mouthful. "I have everything I need right here," he finally says. "Friends, family, good job. Why should I move somewhere where I have nothing, just because you hate me?"

His expression morphs from playful and easy to dark and terse. He crumples his napkin and drops it onto his empty plate before grabbing the leather folder containing the check for our order. He leans to one side, opens his wallet, pulls out a platinum card and slides it into the pocket, dropping the folder on the edge of the table.

He stares out the window, not saying a word while he waits for the waitress to run his card and bring it back. When she does, he signs the receipt, slides the card back into his wallet and, for the first time in about five minutes, looks at me. "Ready to go?"

I nod, feeling... strange... like I hurt his feelings by asking why he'd never moved away. What do I care about his feelings? Why does it matter to me that I've upset him?

We took his car to the restaurant, so we climb back into his shiny E Class and head back to the grocery store. He pulls in next to my shabby little Corolla. I expect a jab or two at the old jalopy but he doesn't say a word.

I get out of his car and step to mine. I barely have my driver's side door open before he guns the engine and takes off, his tires squealing on the pavement.  

Ah, there's the Asshole I know and hate.