The Weapon - Lex - part 1
By Diana the Valkyrie
The solicitor
Update: 16/10/2003 to valkyrie05


I'm perfectly happy being a solicitor, apart from the jokes that people make.
You know, like "Been arrested for soliciting lately?". It isn't that I find
them objectionable, it's that, well, I've heard them all before, they weren't
funny the first time, and they certainly aren't funny the ten thousandth time.
But I've developed a standard answer that I give automatically. "Actually, the
legal profession isn't allowed to solicit for work, we have to rely on
personal recommendation, repeat business and entries in the Yellow Pages. And
the little cards stuck up in phone boxes."

Although recently, they've relaxed the rules a bit, so we are allowed to do a
certain amount of dignified advertising.

Something I really hate is when people confuse us with Counsel. I'm not a
barrister, I can't represent someone in an English court. I do the mundane
legal stuff, like writing nastygrams to people who owe you money, and I talk
to a barrister for you if you need one.

It's a nice life, not too badly paid, and I don't have to clock in and out
each day. Not too well paid, of course, not like the Counsel. And nothing like
the QCs, or the Bench. To give you a rough idea, I run a six year old Ford
Trumpeter. Well, it's good enough, it gets me around.

And some of it is interesting work. Not the conveyancing, that's dead boring.
Routine bread-and-butter stuff, pays the rent is the most you can say for it.
Divorces are interesting, but in the wrong sort of way, there's usually so
much emotion involved. Tears and screaming. And probate can be hairy, talking
to the recently bereaved can be a bit sticky. Tears and weeping. I always keep
a box of paper tissues handy. The thing to do, is wait until they've cried
themselves out and they're ready to continue.

It's a quiet life. Suits me fine. In to the office each day, two weeks holiday
in Cornwall, get a bit of exercise down the allotment. Beans, cabbage, onions,
that sort of thing. Nothing exotic, nothing flashy. Which, I suppose, sums me
up quite nicely.

Yes, it would have been nice to have a wife, kids, all that. But somehow I got
left behind in the marital stakes, and at my age, pushing forty, I'm not
really a candidate for the meat market. A couple of the girls at the office
are rather nice, and one of them kissed me a couple of Christmasses ago. But
it didn't lead to anything. Not that I really expected it to. Huh. A man can
dream, can't he?

Little did I know, as they say in a certain sort of novel, little did I know
that ... well, I won't tell you just yet. Little do you know, too.

It all started when a smartly dressed brunette was shown into my office by
Doreen, who pretends to be my secretary when there's clients around. "Do sit
down," I invited, and glanced at my mobile's clock, for billing purposes.
Because every minute spent with, or on behalf of a client is billable to that
client. I made a note of the time.

"Hello," she said. I smiled back at her, trying to put her at her ease. Some
people find a solicitor's office a bit daunting, with all those heavy legal
tomes lining the wall. Of course, they're just for decoration - if I need to
look up a reference, I google my mobile, just like anyone else. "Name?" I
asked.

"Wendy McCrae," she answered.

Well, you've probably twigged who she was. You're probably young, alert and
know about all sorts of stuff that I don't. But the name didn't ring any bells
with me, and I just continued as per normal. "And what seems to be the
trouble?" She twitched her nose. "I'm being sued." I gave her my Number Three
sympathetic look, not as caring as the Number One, which is for Death of Close
Relative, or even Number Two, which is for Impending Divorce. "How much for,
and why?" I asked.

"Four point eight three billion dollars, for causing an earthquake." I looked
up from my mobile. Another nutter. Nutters just waste your time, and don't pay
any bills. The thing to do with a nutter, is to get her out of here as quickly
as I decently can, and then tell Doreen not to let her in again. While I tried
to think of a good way to get rid of her, I asked her for a few details. "And
where was this earthquake?"

"California, Los Angeles. It's a class action suit."

"And did you cause the earthquake?"

"Yes, but there's extenuating circumstances."

Aren't there always. Wait, what am I doing, I'm starting to take her
seriously. I sighed.

"Look, Mrs McCrae. Go home, and write out a full description of the whole
case, then put it in the post to me, and wait for me to contact you back."
There, that would get rid of her; chances are, I wouldn't even get her
write-up, because nutters aren't into making a sustained effort to support
their nuttery.

She reached behind her, I couldn't quite see where, and pulled out a thick
wodge of papers, a few inches thick, all done up in a manilla folder and tied
with a red ribbon. She dumped this on my desk with a meaty "thwack" as it
landed, then opened it up so that I could see the first page.

It was a summons to the county court of Calaveras County, California. That's
in a town called San Andreas. "I'm not a nutter. If you aren't interested in
taking this case, Mr Mickleshaw, just say so."

I looked at the papers; well, I looked at the first one. It seemed genuine.
Nutters don't usually go to all the trouble of forging summonses to a
preliminary hearing. And where had she been carrying that great thick folder?
I was sure I hadn't seen it when she came in, and she wasn't carrying a
briefcase or a handbag.

And after I decoded the thickly disguised legal prattle, it really was for
four point eight three billion dollars, for causing an earthquake. I looked up
at her. "But why on earth do they think you caused the earthquake? What do
they think, you're some sort of witch or something?" "No, I'm not a witch. I'm
the Guardian of Humanity."

I sighed again. A nutter after all. I looked at the folder of paper. But how
did she make all this paperwork? Oh, of course, a computer is the best
paperwork generator in the world, all she needed to do was google the web for
... she banged her fist on the table, it made a very loud noise, and I looked
up, startled.

Oh my.

She must have been at least six feet tall, but she was hovering a couple of
feet above the ground, so her head was brushing the ceiling. Her wings filled
my office, wall to wall, slowly beating up and down. She was wearing a white
costume, with a gold belt, gold boots, gold gloves. I noticed the big W on her
tunic, somewhat distorted by her, well, by her. Part of her. I mean, parts of
her. Oh fudge.

I'm not a brave man. The legal profession isn't conducive to courage. But I
have to say, I'm considerably ashamed of my reaction. I threw up into my waste
paper basket.

After the worst of the spasms had finished, I was left with a foul taste in my
mouth and a foul smell in my nose. And it was worse when my brain started to
function, and I realised what I'd just done in front of a client. Oh, real
professional, Herbert.