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Deviant Progression
Deviant Progression
Deviant Progression
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Deviant Progression

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Tom Saunders' job is to defend a ruthless executive accused of bilking shareholders of millions. As Tom prowls into the chief prosecution witness's murky private life he falls madly in love with the man's wife, a vigorous and domineering lady with considerable talents of her own.

"T.L. Peters' way of writing is wonderful." Kyanara

LanguageEnglish
PublisherT.L. Peters
Release dateMar 10, 2011
ISBN9781458132468
Deviant Progression
Author

T.L. Peters

"There's no question that Peters is a master wordsmith." Gerry B's Book Reviews About the author: T.L. Peters is an ex-lawyer who enjoys playing the violin and giving his dog long walks in the woods. In between, he writes novels.

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    Deviant Progression - T.L. Peters

    Deviant Progression

    By T.L. Peters

    Smashwords Edition

    Copyright 2011 T.L. Peters

    Smashwords Edition, License Notes

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

    Chapter 1

    I was running late, which was unusual for me because I was a buttlicker of epic proportions, but I had suffered an unyielding attack of loneliness the night before and hadn't gotten much sleep. I normally parked in the cheap lots across the Allegheny River from downtown Pittsburgh where I worked. It meant that I had to hoof it about eight blocks. But since these morning and evening jaunts were about the only exercise I got, I figured they were worth the hassle even if I did get a little sweaty at times. Today I had an important meeting to attend called by the top litigator at my firm, Ducky Quinn. So I shelled out the fifteen bucks to park in the underground garage right next to my building.

    Before you get any wrong ideas about me, this was a big classy law firm too, not some two bit collection of ambulance chasers. In fact, Beasley and Bile usually represented the people getting sued by the ambulance chasers, which I liked because the firm could afford to pay handsomely, a couple hundred thousand a year in my case. The whole deal seemed like manna from heaven, and I didn't feel like blowing it without a good reason.

    As I neared my building I saw a strapping beauty stroll out of the revolving doors and head down the street. She wasn't even wearing high heels, and yet she towered at least a half foot over my five feet eight inches or so of soft dumpy flesh. She filled it all up quite nicely too with a broad robust set of shoulders, a thin wiry waist and a curvy backside that wriggled savagely beneath an insanely snug red skirt. I had never seen her around before, which likely meant that either she was a client or a new hire. In any event, she was worth more than just a passing glance.

    After assuring myself that I still had some twenty minutes before Ducky's meeting, I decided to follow her for a little while. It wasn't stalking really. Guys like me are always making slight detours to check out some strange woman's backside. For two solid blocks she kept her eyes fixed down on the pavement in front of her, like she was brooding or scheming or maybe just daydreaming. Then she whirled into an alley. I paused a moment before taking the plunge, but I'd been caught ogling women plenty of times before and the embarrassment hadn't killed me yet.

    The alley was between two hulking office buildings with old fashioned fire escapes clinging to the filthy brown walls on either side. There were some tacky green garbage bins scattered about and the overall smell was fairly putrid. I wondered why a classy babe like her had decided to opt for such a grimy shortcut. I shuffled along trying not to make too much noise and was slowly able to close the gap between us to about twenty feet. The closer I got to her, the taller and more imposing she seemed. It was like I was gazing up at a highly contoured skyscraper, and I speculated how amazing she would look in high heels.

    Just then the alley swerved a little to the right and she quickly disappeared around the bend. I thought I noticed some slight acceleration in her step but concluded that it was just my imagination. I rushed up to the bend and started to peek around it when my face suddenly collided with a bony fist that sent me sailing straight down onto my backside. My jaw absorbed the full force of the blow without breaking, and I considered myself lucky since jaws don't tend to bleed easily, like if she'd hit me in the nose for instance. I felt each one of the upper and lower incisors, all still firmly lodged in the gums. She hadn't even knocked my glasses off. I timidly peeked up at her.

    Her fist was still balled and her massive handbag too seemed ready for quick service. I tensed up a little preparing for the onslaught. I might have even said a few words in my defense if I thought it might have helped. But I'd had enough experience to know that flowery talk would not likely impress a vigorous woman like her. She didn't make a move toward me and I counted my blessings. Although I liked superior women, I wasn't into pain.

    Why are you following me? she said.

    She had a deep hoarse throaty voice, sort of like a robust wad of chunky peanut butter mixed in with a few teaspoons of dirt. She had some wrinkles around her eyes and her face was sort of stretched, like she'd had some work done. I judged her to be in her fifties. You're beautiful of course.

    She narrowed her dark eyes at me and then smirked a little. That was a good sign because it suggested that she had a sense of humor. I was about to ask her name when suddenly she whirled around and continued strolling down the alley, her backside wriggling even more seductively than before. This time her head was high and haughty and I imagined the pleasure she was feeling in having so easily bested a man. I didn't really mind being on the losing end, though when it came to athletic contests with women I was partial to wrestling over boxing.

    I thought about calling out to her with some glib self serving observation, but figured that I was lucky to escape from the encounter with my face intact. After watching her coil out of sight I finally mustered the gumption to pick myself up off the pavement. At least I hadn't landed in a pile of garbage and dirtied my suit, and I discovered that my pants weren't ripped either. Maybe it wasn't going to be such a bad day after all. I wondered for a moment if I'd ever get the chance to see her again, perhaps in slightly more congenial circumstances. Then I tried to recall if she'd been wearing a wedding ring but couldn't remember. She had hit me with her right hand after all.

    Chapter 2

    Ducky Quinn was impatiently waiting for me at the great oval mahagony table in the main third floor conference room, his thick hairy fingers pounding off the varnished wood like overheated pistons. I entered the room with my normal swagger, since Ducky's frame of mind seldom bothered me. He was generally ticked off about something, controlled rage suiting his personality quite well, as did a certain measure of pomposity with which he was able to persuade clients and fellow partners alike that despite his cockiness he really did know what he was doing, at least most of the time. In that respect I tried to emulate him, though more often than not I seemed to come across as a somewhat impish smart aleck rather than a bold and decisive advocate. But I was still young and figured that I had plenty of time to work on it.

    Today Ducky was wearing his standard hand tailored gray wool suit, white dress shirt, yellow silk tie with silk pocket square to match and black lace up shoes. He had lately begun adding another sartorial touch for our amusement, a fluffy white carnation sticking obnoxiously out of his broad masculine lapel. For a while I had wondered what the occasion might be, but eventually concluded that Ducky just wanted to make himself stand out a little, perhaps give us slaves something to gossip about around the firm. Young lawyers are always eager for the least tidbit of quirky news to distract ourselves from the workaday tedium, and Ducky was nothing if not sensitive to the emotional needs of his lowly associates, especially when he was at the center of all the fuss.

    His drive for notoriety was why he had devised his nickname of Ducky years ago when he was just some schmucky midlevel associate like me. He made it up out of whole cloth in other words, his real name of George apparently not giving him quite the edge he needed to attract management's attention to his fast moving career. To back it up he concocted some story about a youthful hunting accident, but that was all just baloney. And everybody at the firm knew it was baloney too, but they still bought into it. And why not? We were lawyers after all, and it was our job to pass off fiction as fact. This talent for deceit had worked such wonders for Ducky that I had even toyed with devising some clever nickname of my own. Tom Saunders, though easy enough to remember, still seemed a tad dry to me. But I lacked Ducky's imagination and was constantly hoping that someone would create a suitable moniker for me. Other than for the dimunitive Tommy, which I really wasn't too thrilled about, no one had as yet bothered.

    I felt sufficiently well prepared to strut my stuff in front of Ducky as best I could. It was your standard big bucks securities fraud case brimming with the kind of slime that I generally felt quite comfortable rolling around in. Our client, an old sinner by the name of Frank Cochran, the CEO of course since Ducky never represented small timers, had apparently pillaged his company out of a few hundred million dollars while constantly lying about his misdeeds to the masses of bilked shareholders. The only notable wrinkle was that it was a Federal criminal action, which for me at least offered slightly more suspense than a civil case where all the client really had to worry about was parting with some of his ill gotten gains and maybe giving up a few country club memberships. But because corporate crooks never seemed to relish even a short stay at the most comfortable of white collar peniteniaries, they were willing to pay outrageous legal fees to bankroll even the most speculative and dubious inquiries to help their cause. And since I wasn't above padding my billable hours with all sorts of surreptitious wild goose chases, considering myself somewhat of an expert at it in fact, I had sincerely welcomed the news that Ducky had selected me yet again to be part of his team.

    There's one witness who can kill us, Ducky guzzled as he slurped down a blueberry muffin. Ducky was a robust fellow with a reliably hearty appetite, probably because he lacked a conscience, which in the short term at least had always seemed to me a fairly sure pathway to good health. The Chief Financial Officer Harry Langdon knows where all the bodies are buried. We've got to find some way to disparage and otherwise minimize his testimony. The Feds are experts when it comes to eating their way up the corporate food chain, and so we can assume that Langdon can do us plenty of harm if the jury ends up believing him.

    Maybe we should have Langdon killed instead of just spinning our wheels like usual, I snorted as I gingerly eased myself into my favorite seat right across the table from Ducky. The nerve endings in my fanny were just starting to revitalize, and I was beginning to feel a tad more sore than my robust demeanor might have suggested. Just because we're lawyers doesn't mean we have to be wimps too.

    I was kidding of course about murdering Langdon, but you could hardly tell it by the grimly disapproving frowns of my fellow grunts already assembled around the table. Overall my colleagues presented a rather passive and stodgy picture that morning sitting there silently growling at me, and thus with one exception it was a perfect scene by which to introduce them. I should first clear up a misconception about us lawyers fostered by various TV promo spots where we're almost always pictured as walking somewhere rather quickly in a large pack, sort of like well dressed wolves on the prowl. We might for instance be seen striding from the courtroom out to the hall, or from the hall to the courtroom, or taking a heated spin around the office, or heading purposefully to the men's room or wherever, and of course all the while blabbing our heads off as if what we had to say could possibly have mattered to anybody.

    I guess the intent is to make what we do look exciting and maybe even dynamic to viewers who don't really know any better. And while the blabbing part may have been mostly accurate, the rest was largely bunk. The reality is that ours is a fairly sedentary and flat existence, sedentary because we're mostly just sitting around, and flat because we're mostly sitting around large tables full of papers and laptops with only a few stacks of Styrofoam cups and maybe a burnished silver water pitcher or two to break the horizontal monotony. And that, of course, was what we were all doing that morning too, sitting around a large table I mean, albeit like a pack of wolves. Ducky at least was at the height of his powers.

    Maybe we'll have to resort to murder at some point, Ducky said, grinning. But for now at least far more routine unethical behavior will have to do.

    We all laughed at our boss's joke, some however more so than others. One of the more boisterous was Julie Hinken, who as usual sat fawningly to Ducky's right. Julie was wearing her favorite drab gray business suit that made her already blocky shoulders look even more masculine, probably to take the attention off her pale and rather flat face. I suspected that Julie got a charge out of physically intimidating men, but she was always wound so tightly that I could never tell for sure. In any event she was far too thick above the waist for my taste, her chest and stomach resembling uneven slabs of concrete, and I had never pursued the matter seriously. Julie's job was to be somber and methodical and inject common sense into the legal equation on those rare occasions when it was called for. To me though she had always just seemed like a mildly annoying brat, but as yet nobody had asked my opinion.

    Esther Fairchild, the least syncophantic person in the room and whom I actually kind of liked in my weaker moments, was sitting as unobtrusively as she could at the far end of the table. Having dispensed with more traditional business garb from her earliest days at the firm, Esther was wearing a typically light flowery dress that seemed to swirl around her bony torso even when she was sitting perfectly still like she was now. I really don't know why I seemed so fond of Esther, at least not back then anyway. Maybe it was because she was so obviously uncomfortable around sharks like Ducky and Julie and me that there just had to be a glimmer of genuine humanity sparkling somewhere inside her. That's not to suggest that I was all that impressed with genuine humanity, but it was a quality clearly different from what I was used to. And in the deathly monotony of post-modern white collar existence anything truly different is worth holding onto, at least until it starts to hurt your career.

    Finally and barely worth mentioning, though Ducky apparently disagreed, was the tall handsome Nick Adams seated that morning on Ducky's immediate left. Nick was wrapped in a snugly tailored white shirt that seemed to shimmer in the dull office light with a stylishly soft pink Hermes tie bouncing off his lean chest. He even had his sleeves rolled up like he was prepared to do some real work for a change, instead of the sniveling mindless corporate jobs he was used to. Apart from his stereoptypical good looks, Nick was your basic office grind and a phony even among phonies. To me he was neither likeable nor especially hateful. He was just always lurking around someplace nearby trying to call attention to himself. Why Ducky continued to recruit him for these big jobs I had no idea, unless it was perhaps to keep tabs on me and my covert doings. Nick for some reason fancied himself in heated competition with me for a coveted partnership spot, and I guess Ducky figured that Nick could keep me from straying too far beyond the line.

    Aside from Ducky, who was proudly thirty five, a somewhat tender age for the firm's most prominent litigator, we were all in our late twenties. And since we didn't trust each other, or at least I didn't trust them, aside perhaps from Esther, and naturally assumed that they held me in similarly low regard, we never socialized outside the office. But Ducky demanded collegiality on his team, and so for the most part we all pretended to get along.

    If there's any nasty work to be done, Tom's the guy, Julie sneered at me but not in an evil way. If there is such a thing as an convivial sneer, Julie had mastered the technique. Unless Tom has finally decided to reform himself and becoming boringly competent like the rest of us.

    Never, I snorted, shifting my fanny around to try and find a spot that wasn't so raw. Rebelliousness is my trademark.

    Normally Ducky would have chuckled at my silly pronouncements, or at least smile a little, but today his face glided into a rather offputting scowl. For an uneasy few moments I wondered if I had done anything to warrant his disapproval, but quickly decided that he was just trying to keep me on a short leash. Even Ducky, whom I had helped win numerous cases, had never seemed to trust my good intentions. Maybe it was my clothes that had lent me such an unpleasant image, and possibly explained why the Amazon that morning had felt so easily moved to laugh at me as I was lying in the alley gazing up at her stern beauty.

    I was wearing my usual brown Sears polyester blend suit with pale yellow polyester shirt to match. I even had on one of my notorious clip on ties, a prized antique in this increasingly superficial world of ours. This one had garish red stripes plastered against a navy blue background and was stained throughout with the residue of past lunches with Ducky, which just showed you how far I was willing to go to tick off my fellow lawyers. Now you might be wondering why a buttlicker like me would dare risk offending his colleagues over something so superficial as his wardrobe. It was a strategic choice really. The denizens of Big Business these days being such suckers for outward displays of tolerance and diversity, I decided to set myself up as a prime benefactor of their largesse.

    Being a WASP, albeit a rather impoverished one, I needed to carve out an appropriately distinctive and sympathetic identity for myself, and so I had chosen to play the role of rebellious genius. It was a risky strategy since I wasn't all that bright really, but because making partner in a big firm had become such a dicey proposition I figured that I might as well go for it. So while everybody else was haunting the high fashion shops for all the latest cutting edge styles, I had bought my two or three suits off the rack at forty percent discounts. I probably spent more money on underwear than I did on my sparse assortment of dress shirts since I hated doing laundry. My shabbiness wasn't just for show either. I actually enjoyed wearing cheap clothes because it seemed to me like a lot less work putting them on and taking them off.

    Ducky was quick to shrug off my lame remarks as the kind of gibberish you could expect from an immature stooge like me and then, grunting to underscore the severity of the matter, he moved on to his main point.

    Cochran's so old that if he's convicted he'll likely spend the rest of his life in prison, Ducky blathered as soggy bits of egg muffin shot out of his mouth at various angles. We can't let that happen if we want to retain our image as hotshot criminal defense counsel, not to mention keep alive the already slim hopes you fresh faced young hired guns have of ever making partner at this firm.

    Theoretically we were all supposed to be sitting there in rapt attention gobbling up every brilliant and frightening word pouring out of the great man's mouth. And maybe that was what everybody else was doing, but I had attended enough of these confabs to realize how worthless they were. Like most successful lawyers Ducky simply enjoyed hearing himself talk before an audience, no matter how small and undistinguished, and there was generally little reason to pay much

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