The next morning, I drove to a strip-mall office on the edge of town, the kind of place with a hand-lettered sign and a waiting room that smelled like toner and peppermint gum. The attorney’s name was Gloria Mendez. She was somewhere in her fifties, gray-streaked hair pulled back tight, reading glasses on a chain around her neck. She looked like someone who had heard every version of every story and was not impressed by any of them.
I handed her my phone and let her read the texts.
She read them slowly. Set the phone down. Looked at me over her glasses.
“You want him out,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“I want him to feel it,” I said.
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