There wasn’t a lot of money in this type of casework, but there were certainly other benefits.
During his days, Jefferson Adams was a lawyer aimed towards doing defense work for the poorer, down-on-their-luck segments of Sacramento’s populace. He also, not by coincidence, did a lot of work for purported members of the city’s criminal element. Once—many years ago—he had wanted to be some of the more high-profile defense work. There was money in that. Maybe a book deal, if he played his cards right.
But the Master did not want that; and so, Adams was stuck here, helping the sort of people that by all rights he should be spitting upon. But he did the job. He was not happy with his work, not content with it; but with this he was, at least, serving the Master. And that, oddly, made him happy. Happy enough, at least.
But there were times he was repulsed by the things he had to do.
Take this current wasted opportunity, the one that the Master was currently speaking with in his private office (“speaking with,” that was certainly a lie—no doubt the man’s wrist to the Master’s mouth at this very moment, the Master’s way of signing a contract). His name was Constance Giggs, and according to the paperwork filed by the Sacramento Police he was part of a network that cooked and distributed methamphetamines up and down the West Coast. Giggs had been arrested after toxicology tests showed that his girlfriend’s two-year-old son—who had supposedly died in a tragic accident involving Giggs’ lack of attention and his Escalade—had been high on glass at the time of death.
Adams was repulsed by the whole idea. Certainly he had done some horrible things during his years in the Master’s employ, but he had never given drugs to children.
But seeing some potential there, the Master had demanded a meeting, and it looked as though Adams would be taking the case. He would be sure the man went free. Not that Giggs was innocent; Adams was rather sure that the skinny, mulleted man deserved the chair. But there was always something; mishandled evidence, forgotten Miranda rights, something. Always a technicality. The case could be thrown out, and then this man would be in the Master’s debt.
Jefferson Adams, while no stranger to gambits and currying favor, was a bit put off by the Master’s choices when it came to what cases should be given special attention. What, exactly, was the Master gathering such relationships for?
What plan could be served by working with such horrible people?