"...because his kid's got Asperger's." Donald pronounces it like a particularly unsavory fast-food item. I lose my appetite, but Donald’s client, another parent, merely nods, and takes another bite of his turkey club sandwich. Donald smiles that way that his clients find reassuring, but I think makes him look like a wolf. Most of them never even realize they’ve been screwed. I guess it’s nice when the prey brings its own platter; kind of a hunter’s holiday.
“Eat smart,” I mutter, shoving my spinach salad across the table toward Donald and collecting my bag.
“I’ll see you back at the office,” Donald calls easily behind my graceless exit, secure in the strength of his scam.
His files are in an envelope en route to the DA. There is nothing in my bag but new ID and a plane ticket. He won’t see me, and I’m going to do my best to forget that I ever saw him.
