Weekend Writing Warriors: Full Metal Librarian (Knotty)

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I’m skipping ahead for reasons of editorial necessity—you could imagine orange traffic cones and person in a bright yellow tabard thingie holding a GO SLOW, GET IT RIGHT sign on a stick, if you like.

It’s too bad. Y’all missed a pretty good kiss.

So Clyota is now waiting in the Courthouse for her trial to begin . . . And it’s already been a fraught morning.

My Necktie -- 6/7/5

I sat on a padded bench along one wall, my back so rigid it ached.

The waiting room was cleaner and more comfortable than the corridor I had been shuttled through during my arraignment, but still had the same—not a smell, exactly, but maybe scent or sense of tension and anticipation, anxiety mixed with hope. I had set my beret to one side so I wouldn’t mangle it with nervous hands, but I couldn’t seem to stop petting it, like it was a small pet I needed to calm.

Charlie was talking to Reynard across the room, hands behind him in an easy parade rest. His dress grays were a perfect fit, I noticed, particularly across the shoulders, and around his hips—but I wasn’t going to think about that, since I had several hours of sheer stress to get through and if I didn’t relax soon, I was going to explode into a million little pieces the minute my rear hit the defendant’s chair.

The dead bodies in Charlie’s living room didn’t help.

I’d woken up early, too early, and had headed for the kitchen unit, hoping that a little breakfast—maybe some toast and tea—would settle the nerves that were already beginning to twitch.

Instead, I’d found Reynard standing over a dead man wearing a badly fitting business suit, preparing to remove his knife from just above the fat knot of the generically striped tie.

_______________________

Photo credit: bjohnson, who actually has nice taste in ties.

Weekend Writing Warriors: Full Metal Librarian (Memory Aid)

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When last we left them, Charlie had sort of proposed to Clyota through her friend Christina, who was being a pill and deserved the shock.

Now, Charlie, Clyota, and (of course) The Pressman are back at Charlie’s apartment.  Clyota is brushing her teeth and trying not to wonder why Charlieeven  has a spare toothbrush—it’s none of her business if he has a lot of spontaneous overnight guests, is it?

It’s not like he meant what he said to Christina, right?  They’re just friends.  Partners.  Pals.

But when she leaves the bathroom, Charlie is waiting . . .

(it just occured to me that I have a lot of C-names in this story . . . but at least I get to use this image again!)

Potty

 “Thought I’d make use of the facilities before starting my watch.”

“Good idea,” I said, through a yawn.  “Unless you want to bring a new definition to the term ‘sloppy defense.’”

“Young lady, that is both crude and inappropriate.”

“Speaking of inappropriate,” I said, thumping him on the shoulder, “what’s the big idea telling Christina we’re getting married?”

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“I’ll never hear the end of it.”

“Then you won’t have any trouble keeping it in mind.”

Weekend Writing Warriors: Full Metal Librarian (Intentions)

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Is it Sunday already?  Wow.

Anyone remember Cristina from several chapters ago?  She’s Clyota’s best friend and Samantha’s paralegal, which—as you’d know if I’d posted that bit from chapter six—is how Clyota managed to score a place on Sam’s client list.  And why she’s showing up this Sunday, as all those subpoenas don’t write up themselves.

It should be mentioned that Cristina might also be a little ticked off about not knowing what’s been going on with her friend for half the book.

But Charlie, as always, has Cly’s back.

So to speak.

????????????

“Your full name, marital status, and intentions toward my former best friend?”

I groaned.  “Christina, we don’t have time for—”

But Charlie had risen and snapped to attention, as if Christina was the President of the ALA.  “Ma’am, Charles Robert Boyer-Ray, Ma’am.  I am not contracted for partnership, at this time, but if the trial goes well, I intend to marry your former best friend this Saturday. Ma’am.”  He picked up Christina’s shock-limp hand, shook it gently, and sat back down.

Yeah . . . it was a surprise to Clyota, too.

Weekend Writing Warriors: Full Metal Librarian (All’s Fair)

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The kids are in finally in school!  I had the first two days off and I so wanted to celebrate by writing pages and pages, and mostly I just took naps and more naps.

Oh, well.

I did manage to work a bit on my new projects and managed to choose the next eight from FML.  I’m skipping ahead a bit from last week, because spoilers spoil stuff, but it’s actually not a bad transition:

Sweeping

Three more rescheduled appointments and a vast array of delivered Chinese food later, the tale was told.

“My God,” said Samantha, who had long abandoned her desk to pace up and down the room to listen to selected entries from the data pocket. We’d used Reynard’s recording, audio only, though Samantha assured us that her terminal was secure.

“Gladstone-Klein has had a week to find out that you’re Clyota’s lawyer,” Charlie had said. “I’m surprised they didn’t bug your offices.”

Samantha had frowned. “Routine sweeps found several over the past few days. But I haven’t given it much thought—there are a few high-profile divorces going on and all’s fair in love and property division.”

Weekend Writing Warriors: Full Metal Librarian (Principled Curiosity)

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________________________

This week’s passage took a little more editing that usual—I’ve always taken the opportunity to change things that I note as I search for Sunday snippets, but The bit following last week’s was a mess.  It was pedantic, repetitive, and a tad too unethical on Samantha’s part—it’s like she didn’t know any more about the law than I do, for heaven sakes, when she’d better sound like she knows more, or we’re all doomed.

I ended up swapping passages, took out sentences, put in sentences, and tightened my speech taggery.

And then I loaded the scene back into the MS before I pasted eight of those sentences here.

So if anyone thinks that all WeWriWa and Snippet Sunday provides is the opportunity to brag, you’re wrong.  It does the ego good, sure, and keeps the interest levels up in both one’s own work and other people’s (my Must Read list has quadrupled along the way) . . . but it also does the writing some good, too.

Just sayin’

Regardless, this bit comes right after last week’s, when lawyer Samantha asked Clyota about the contents of that pesky lockbox:

Question

“Hold on,” Samantha said, holding up a hand. “Before I allow my curiosity to overcome my principles, I should remind you that I’m an officer of the Court, which means if I conceal any crime, either directly or by omission, I’ll lose my license and standing—you’re not paying me enough for that, either. So you need to decide how much about this mystery you want me reporting to the Powers that Be.”

I studied her for a moment, an idea tickling the back of my mind.

“But that aside,” she said, “Attorney-Client Privilege says I can’t repeat what you tell me, unless you want me to. And while it’s all well and good there’s another suspect—and that a high-ranked member of the Press is a witness—unless we can prove why Anderson-Smith wants this property enough to kill for it, we run the risk of the prosecution convincing the Jury, not to mention Rapton-Fitzgerald, that you killed your mother’s boyfriend for some deep, dark psychological reasons. And I don’t do insanity defenses.

“Plus,” she added, with a wide smile that displayed blinding white teeth against lovely sienna skin, “I really want to know.”