Love Hate Law: A Kramer-O'Hara Legal Romance

PROLOGUE

THE INSURRECTION

Rinke

C

apitol Park was a canopy of color. Trees, yet to shed leaves for the winter, treated visitors to a stunning array of reds, purples, oranges, and golds. Pockets of morning dew caught beneath the pine boughs, heavy with seedling cones, fanned out their intoxicating scent on the fingers of an erratic breeze.

On this fall day in Lansing, Michigan, soon-to-be-former governor Gordon Rinke stepped to the podium. The election was over—a clear and convincing victory for the newly elected governor, Charlie Page. Deeply divided Michigan would now head in a different direction.

Not so fast, declared Rinke. In a stunning display of narcissism and political arrogance, Rinke refused to concede. They rigged the count, he cried, making camera-grabbing protests.

He rallied his supporters, appealing to the lowest common denominator. His most significant financial contributor was Brandon North, founding member of the Michigan Watch Patrol, a far-right militia group preparing for a second American revolution or civil war. The Patrol was pro-gun and anti-government, opposed to Michigan’s COVID-19 vaccination and lockdown protocol, and part of a mini-rebellion that helped sweep Gordon Rinke into office.

For weeks, Rinke encouraged followers like North to descend on the Capitol, protest the outcome, prevent certification of the vote, demand a recount, declare the election fraudulent, and induce a duly appointed legislative committee to overturn the results.

Rinke squinted in the bright sunlight, gazing at the ‘magnificent turnout,’ buoyed that his last-ditch ploy might work. Is the impossible possible? He marveled at his supporters’ ignorant obedience. If I told these guys to kidnap Page, they’d do it!

Like a preacher, Rinke raised his arms to the sky, requesting silence. The crowd obeyed. Remarkable! He gazed at his supporters, some dressed in combat gear, many armed, perhaps dangerous. They could become violent, but not toward him or his people. Who cares? These Capitol frauds certainly don’t care about me!

Police were scattered among the protestors, sticking out like sore thumbs, deeply concerned that this ‘rally for justice’ might turn violent. The protestors might turn their aggression toward contrary reporters or the police. Lansing and Michigan State Police were vastly outnumbered. The National Guard was on standby.

My fellow Michiganders, Rinke began. The crowd went wild at the sound of his voice. I come before you today for one reason only—to save Michigan. This election was not legitimate! We have a rigged system!

The crowd roared, bullshit, not legit. Rinke silenced the audience with a raised arm.

Look at this crowd! he shouted. The media will not accurately report the size of this crowd. He gestured to camera operators to turn their cameras to the decent-sized crowd, but they refused to do his bidding. Cowards and traitors, the lot of you, he scowled.

The media is our state’s biggest problem—fake news, everywhere! The crowd chanted fake news until Rinke ordered them to stop.

Will we stand back and see our victory stolen by our opponents?

Hell no! His followers cried.

We will rise up and declare that we’re mad as hell and will not take it anymore! Rinke borrowed the famous line from Network. 

This election was not even close! His first honest remark of the day—he did not mean it as a concession to Page’s margin of victory.

We will march to the Capitol, take back our State, and restore integrity to our elections. I will lead you into the people’s building. If we must fight, we will fight like hell! Break down doors and force your way in if you must. Drain the swamp and trample anyone in our way. Let’s take back our Capitol!

Rinke railed on far too long, for more than an hour. The speech finally ended, and his security team swept him away. Cheering supporters rushed toward the Capitol, chanting, Stop the steal. State and Lansing police erected a barricade at the top of the Capitol steps and formed a defensive line on the center steps leading to the building.

As the speech droned on, a small group of Watch Patrol members gathered at the lightly guarded back entrances on the other side of the building. They quickly breached the building. Armed with assault rifles, these protestors raced through the lobby and headed toward the front entrance. When they reached their destination, they poured through the panic doors toward the line of officers. They kicked the barriers down the stairs.

Each member selected an officer, barreled into them from behind, and sent the officers tumbling down the long Capitol stairway. At the same time, Brandon North and a second group of rioters ascended the stairway and watched helpless, injured officers roll past them down the stairs. Patrol members breached the main entrance and stampeded over anyone in their path. After their tumble down the stairs, uninjured or slightly injured officers resumed upright positions and gave chase up the stairs. Legislators had quietly evacuated the Capitol before the breach—senators and state representatives were never in danger.

Three more hours passed before Capitol officers declared the building secure. Governor Rinke, who inspired the riot and promised to lead protestors into the Capitol, had disappeared. In the aftermath of the insurrection, this beautiful beacon of law and justice suffered millions in property and precious artifact damage. Several officers and citizens were injured—one citizen, a young legislative assistant, was trampled to death by the stampeding mob at the front entrance. 

At a private, secure location a few blocks from the Capitol, the final vote certification declared Charlie Page the winner by a wide margin. The violence was for naught. Michigan had a new governor.

CHAPTER ONE

TWO MONTHS LATER

Andrea

C

an someone love a career choice and hate it at the same time? Andrea Kramer was glad she went to law school and proud to graduate summa cum laude from the University of Michigan. She took school seriously—her activist parents would not have it any other way. Their activism rubbed off. While she wasn’t always successful in her endeavors, it wasn’t for lack of trying.

She sat in a small booth at the Coffee Mug Café, waiting for Mary Beth to take her order and, more importantly, pour her precious coffee. The café was known for its coffee, but Mary Beth’s fantastic chocolate doughnuts brought her in that morning. Andrea was tense. Today, she celebrated the official opening of her new law office—celebrations required chocolate.

A couple dozen of your chocolate doughnuts and a thermos filled with coffee, please? She called out to Mary Beth, who busily slapped mugs and plates on the counter for a line of customers.

Oh, and that’s to go, she added. Law school and a short, so far uninspiring career in the law taught her to be careful with her words. She left nothing to chance. No lawyer wants to leave matters to a jury or a judge so they may draw their own conclusions. Good lawyers, like directors of award-winning movies, directed conclusions.

Today, you leave the door unlocked, huh? Mary Beth teased. Well, it’s about time. Nobody can hire you if you don’t let them in . . . or maybe that’s the idea?

She tipped forward from her rubber band waist. Her practiced aim refilled Andrea’s cup from two feet overhead. Like a bartender who practiced glass acrobatics, Mary Beth’s steady aim resulted from a generation’s worth of waiting tables. She knew her business and customers, the primary reason she was Andrea’s favorite.

Andrea dragged herself in for a pick-me-up each morning before heading to Ann Arbor. Today, she’d stay in Saline. Dressed for painting, a scarf tied around her reddish brunette hair, not a speck of make-up was wasted. Andrea hoped to finish renovating a historic home into the Law Offices of Andrea Kramer.

The office was a unique conversion. Several years earlier, an architect converted a grain silo and barn into a modern residence. Shortly after the Dupree family moved into the home, all five family members were murdered, execution style. The murder was never solved.

A few years later, a family from out of town bought the place, then quickly abandoned it after experiencing what they called paranormal activity. The new owners swore, up and down, that the house had a strange smell—like something had died. The children claimed to have observed three shadowy forms in their bedroom. Presumably, these were the Dupree children.

An investor purchased the home cheaply, converted the zoning, and

listed it as a professional office. The property sat vacant for years—everyone in town knew the history.

Andrea was not superstitious. Besides, the price was right, and the conversion was intriguing. The silo had circular shelving for potential use as a working law library or file room. The barn was spacious and had a vaulted hardwood ceiling. Andrea envisioned rental offices and a beautiful conference room. The home had a kitchen, living room, three bedrooms, and a sunroom. The living room would be a waiting area, reception, and secretarial space. The bedrooms would be attorney offices, and the sunroom would be Andrea’s getaway room.

Andrea loved the place but knew better than to exhibit her enthusiasm. She wrinkled her nose as Meagan Fields, an old college chum, walked her through.

Any way to get rid of that odor? Andrea inquired.

I don’t smell anything.

Smells like something or someone died.

That’s the legend, but we both know it’s a bunch of malarky.

I smell something.

Meagan grunted. Everyone who knows the history of this place ‘smells something.’ She finger-signed the quotes. If this place had no history, the rent would quadruple. We both know that.

I don’t know. It might be difficult to get staff or clients to come into the office.

Meagan shrugged. History or no history, this is the only building in your price range. The good news is that you lock in the rate for three years.

I saw a local documentary about the Dupree murders. People believe it’s still haunted. I don’t know—

Jesus, Andi. Please give it a rest! I’m trying to work with you here.

Ask them to drop the rent by a few hundred, and I’ll take it. Maybe I’ll embrace the history. How does Kramer Law Offices at Tranquility Manor sound?

Wonderful. Meagan rolled her eyes. I’ll relay your offer.

Make it five hundred.

Five hundred what?

Ask for a five-hundred-dollar reduction. No rent increases for the entire lease term and an option to renew for another three years at the same rate.

Such a lawyer—everything’s a negotiation. I’ll relay the message. Anything else? Do you want the guy to pay your employees? Handle your overhead? Meagan chided.

He could throw in utilities and paint the place, Andrea floated.

Don’t push it, Kramer. You can pay the utilities with the five-hundred-dollar discount.

Are you saying it’s a deal?

I’ll make it work. This guy is desperate. Don’t tell anyone, but I like you better than him.

Thanks.

This is exciting, career-wise.

We’ll see. I’m glad to be home. Looking forward to helping real people.

After she graduated from law school, Andrea spent a few years doing corporate defense work, making rich corporate types richer and helping insurance companies deny legitimate claims. She was well-paid but miserable. She hated screwing people. Without notice, she walked into the senior partner’s office one day and quit.

Andrea still felt unfulfilled a year after renting an office from a small personal injury firm, doing the firm’s overflow district court work, and covering scheduling conflicts. She welcomed a return to her hometown and the opportunity to help people in her community.

Meagan interrupted her thoughts.

How’s life treating you? Any interesting prospects?

Prospects?

Come on, Andi, spill. How’s your love life?

Not everyone can be as lucky as you. Jason is quite the rising star.

"He’s too focused on his career for my taste."

Poor baby. Are you being ignored? Andrea teased.

"A woman has certain desires, you know. He satisfies most of them. Look at you, the big-shot lawyer changing the subject. The question was about your love life, missy, not mine."

Nothing to report, I’m afraid. Maybe after I get my office going.

The good ones will all be taken.

Love will come—I’m not going to force it.

The famous last words of an old maid.

That’s a stretch—don’t you think? I’m still in my twenties.

Close to thirty.

Andrea signed the lease the next day. The landlord eyed her. New law practice, eh? Are you sure you’ll be able to make the rent?

Andi pivoted her head to face him. You have other takers? She sniffed the air. What’s that smell?

Huh? He grumbled and sniffed at the air. I don’t smell anything.

Everyone else does.

"Rent is due first of the month, every month. Don’t let me down," he warned.

You’ll get your money. She felt her temper begin to flare, and for good reason. The landlord had a nightmare on his hands and refused to admit it. In the end, he made quite a show of conciliation and left. Andrea changed the locks that same day and began sprucing the place up, making the place look like the office she envisioned.

Everything up to that point had been without risk, without penalty. She knew things would soon change. She lingered, giving the walls an extra coat, waiting for the right area rug to cover defects in the tiled floor.

Someday, these floors will be solid wood. I’ll need a tax shelter and someone to share my good fortune.

After opening the office door on her first day in business, Andrea sniffed the air and smelled only fresh paint and coffee. She placed the coffee and donuts in the corner of the reception area and glanced around, proud of her work. She walked over to what would soon be a receptionist’s desk and typed a password into the computer, DEFENSELAWYERSSUCK!

Behind her, the front door opened. Andrea stiffened. A client? The moment arrived sooner than she expected.

You the lawyer? An older man stood in her doorway, staring at her, looking around for the receptionist or secretary who did not exist. That will come later, Andrea told herself.

The man wiped his hand against the thigh of his jeans, then briefly took Andrea’s in the limp way a man does when confronted with the delicacy of a female hand.

I like what you’ve done with the place. It’s haunted, you know.

So, I’ve been told. How may I help you, sir? Let’s start with your name.

I’m Arthur Longbow. He held a weathered Detroit Tigers baseball cap between roughened fingers. Every few seconds, he snuffed loudly and cleared his throat. It was a raw sound. Tears formed in his eyes.

My daughter was at the Capitol two months ago, he whispered.

CHAPTER TWO

Michael

"W

hat the hell?" Michael O’Hara’s cell phone alarm chirped loudly enough to awaken him, ending a wonderful dream he could not quite remember. He pried his eyes open and looked around the unfamiliar room.

Shit! He grumbled. Where am I? He squirmed to the side of the bed, let his feet touch the floor, and felt a wave of dizziness and nausea as he willed his body to an upright position. That’s when he saw her. A beautiful naked woman lay on top of the sheets on the opposite side of the bed.

Who the hell are you? What happened last night?

Are you alive? He gasped. How could you not have heard that insidious alarm?

He walked over to the other side and gently tapped the woman on her bare shoulder. She stirred.

Thank God! Not dead. She’s got a terrific ass.

He grabbed both shoulders and shook her a bit more vigorously. She stirred, rolled onto her back, moaned, and opened her eyes.

Morning . . . uh . . . Michael? What time is it?

She knows my name. He studied her face and body, still trying to remember. Who are you, beautiful? Where am I?

He returned to his side of the bed to retrieve his cell phone. What time is it? He pressed a button. The screen came to life, displaying the time: nine-fifteen in the morning.

Shit, I’m late! He scanned the room, trying to recall something from the night before. His eyes settled on the bed and the naked woman. She caught him looking, stretched enthusiastically, and opened her legs. Michael sucked in a breath and paused to enjoy the view.

Who are you? Where are we?

Don’t you remember, darling? I’m Trudy.

Michael continued to stare at the beautiful stranger.

We met last night at Jacoby’s, she continued. "You did have a lot to drink."

"Jacoby’s? It is one of my favorite places." He struggled to recall the meet.

I was sitting at the bar, waiting for my date. You snooze, you lose, right? she recalled.

Huh?

My date was late. You were alone and transmitting vibes.

Vibes?

Yeah, you know . . . vibes, like you were looking for company. You are quite a handsome man.

Thank you. And you’re a beautiful woman. I’m sure you know that. He forced a smile, still clueless.

You moved over a few seats and introduced yourself, remember?

Honestly, I wish I did. How much did we have to drink?

Let me put it this way. You were very generous. Neither of us could drive at closing time, so you booked a room at the Greektown Hotel.

And?

And what? We took an Uber to the hotel, and the rest is history. Last night was amazing!

I see . . . uh . . . Trudy . . . I’m beginning to remember now, he lied. Last night was the best I’ve had in a long time. He glanced at his phone again.

Listen . . . uh . . . I’m sorry to do this to you. I’m late for work. I’ve got to take a quick shower and run. You’re welcome to stay a while if you’d like. I’ll call you.

You don’t have my number.

There’s a notepad on the desk over there, he pointed. Write it down, and I’ll give you a buzz.

You’re lying. You don’t remember a thing, do you?

I remember getting smashed, he confessed. Not much else, I’m afraid.

"That’s too bad. That was the best sex I’ve had in years.