Cecilia walked down the street in the big city, the smoke from her cigarette fogging the florescent, murky sky. Day, night, there were no tells save the suits in the bar windows. So many men fresh off work, reluctant to return home to bothersome wives and troublesome kids. So for a drink or two they’ll stave off the inevitable; the life they themselves slaved so many years to achieve as a plaque, a milestone, a social check mark. Cecilia could not help but smile. She was in her mid to late thirties, professional hair and makeup sitting atop a fine suit she purchased just the week before. An estranged mid to older man might go so far as to label her attractive in a certain light, if she allowed herself to be in such a situation. Cecilia was a successful, strict lawyer. I say successful because she had yet to lose a case. I say strict because she only represented a select group of citizens. She chose her clients very carefully. Walking amongst the tall buildings and low hanging street signs Cecilia had a rare moment of reflection. The select group of people she chose to represent were not what regular society would deem worthy of defending. They were not drug dealers, murderers, hell, they weren’t even child molesters. They were domestic violence offenders. Men (Cecilia never represented women) charged with beating their girlfriends and wives within an inch of their lives. Cecilia made a killing off defending such men, and as her reputation proceeded her she was a repeat offender’s go to woman. This evening, for instance, she was on her way to meet a client she’d worked with before. Two wives and cases later it seemed a woman had landed him in hot water yet again. Cecilia cared little for ethics. It was a relative term and she was not in the business of relativity. She arrived at a cocktail lounge, dim blue and green lights illuminating the window silhouettes, and thought it a good of place as any to meet privately for business, which she was certain her client did often. Rule number one with Cecilia: she did not want to know. Not if you beat your wife; she assumed if you were in need of her services the answer was affirmative. But to know little else. If you cheated, where you liked to eat, or even your favorite color. The less she knew the better. She walked in through the small, single door and found her client sitting at the bar, looking seasoned and all together unbothered by the most recent allegations and scandals. All thanks to Cecilia.  

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