Dana Reeves walked into Treeline like she was deposing it.
Mid-fifties. Silver hair cut to the jaw. A briefcase that looked like it had been through litigation the way boots go through mud — scarred, functional, carrying evidence of every fight it had survived. She ordered a drip coffee — not a cortado, not an espresso, a drip coffee with room for cream — and the ordinariness of the order told me everything I needed to know about the woman Cole had recommended to represent me. She wasn't performing. She was working.
"Ms. Bridger." She extended her hand across the counter. The handshake was firm in the way that expensive attorneys' handshakes are firm — not a test, a statement. I'm here. I'm real. The clock started when I walked through your door. "Cole Ashford told me you need independent counsel for a partnership restructuring."
"He told me you hate him."
