In Over My Head

March 29, 2014: Shift pays a visit to his attorney regarding his recent 'jobs'.

//Loblaw, Kathman and Fritz, LLC //

<Location Description>



  • U. Samuel Kathman II, Esq.

Mood Music:
Steppenwolf - The Pusher (spotify)

You've probably seen his horrible ads on television. Sam "Not Guilty!" Kathman, the man you call when you're caught driving drunk, pissing in an alley, jumping a subway turnstile, dealing drugs, or dodging child support. The man's public presence is incredibly stereotypical, and he's shameless in slinging his status as an Orthodox (read: bullshit) Jew, but people also know that behind the corny ads, he's one of the best criminal defense attorneys in the five boroughs.

Kathman's got himself set up in a swanky retail space somewhere on the edge of hipster country, Williamsburg, Brooklyn, NY. Many of the locals get annoyed by his presence there, considering it some kind of stain on the neighborhood that brings in the worst dregs of society in the hopes that Kathman's "Not Guilty!" claims are true.

Seems they forget the neighborhood's Hasidic roots.

Sam walks into his office with a cocky grin on his face. He's halfway through setting down a briefcase when a pungent smell hits his nose, which curls almost immediately. He darts his eyes around until they fall upon Shift, lounging on the attorney's couch with his mud-stricken boots plopped up on his oaken table.

"Dude! You can't smoke a doob in here!"

Shift looks over at the attorney, letting the joint linger between his fingers. He doesn't acknowledge Kathman's complaint, other than to pinch the cigarette between his lips and take a big, long hit.

Kathman scowls. He walks over to pick Shift's boots up off the table with a disgusted look on his face, treating them as if they were fresh out of a toxic waste dump. "You're gonna pay for a refinish and polish on this table, too. You know that, right?"

"In some few weeks," answers the Ghanaian, "Dere will be enough in your IOLTA to pay for something much bettah." He kicks the side of the table disrespectfully with his boot. "I'm sahprised dis ain't cheap plywood, anyway."

"Touche," answers the attorney before he takes a seat behind a table that might fit better on the set of a TV Evangelist. He reaches for a bottle on his wet bar and pours himself a glass of gin, then a glass of bourbon for his client. "So, what's the deal this time? What kind of bullshit are you bringing to me in my office? Too much more of this and I'm not sure I'll have the chutzpah to retain you as a client."

Kwabena reaches for the glass of whiskey. "Don't be an idiot, Sam. I'm one of your best clients."

"You're sloppy, and dangerous. You -used- to stick with busting up worthless gang members and rival drug lords, which is fine. You're doing the cops jobs for them, in a way, and with a little payola I can keep them off your backs. But this vigilante crap you're pulling lately is like taking a big red can of paint and putting 'dis-barred' on my walls."

As Shift draws away the glass of whiskey, he leaves behind a piece of paper. He remains silent as Kathman reads it's contents, and when the color drains from his face, Kwabena drains the whiskey from its glass.

"That's job numbah two. Job numbah one involves dealing with some thugs who are blackmailing Marcus Grindlewelt. I believe he attends your synagogue?"

Sam looks up at Kwabena, frowning. "Doctor Marcus? What's wrong, what's happened to him?"

"He's fine, for now. But his family is in danger. The people who are threatening him? I know exactly where dey live, where dey work, what kind of medications dey're on and what kind of porn dey like to hide from dere wives. I also know dat dey have friends and accomplices in high government places."

"So like, why don't we just take this to the police?" asks the attorney. "I mean, I know we aren't exactly great bed buddies but—"

Shift interrupts Sam. "Because de police will nevah believe how I came across dis information."

"How… -did- you, anyway?"

Kwabena shakes his head and instead offers the joint to Kathman, who reluctantly takes it for a hit.

"I'm in ovah my head, Sam," admits Shift. "I need you now, more than evah."

"What for?" Sam passes the joint back to Kwabena

"Check out dese names, dese items, everything. I need to know if I'm walking into a setup." Kwabena sits back against the couch, snuffing out the joint into an ash tray nearby.

"It won't be pretty if I am."

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