CHAPTER ONE

On a Monday morning in March of 2017, Robin Lockwood rose before the sun and ran the five miles from her apartment to McGill’s gym.

For years, the Pearl had been a decaying warehouse district. Then the developers invaded and expensive condos, boutiques, art galleries, and trendy restaurants sprang up like mushrooms after a heavy rain. The old brick building in which McGill’s gym was housed was one of the few places that had evaded the agents of gentrification.

Barry McGill, the gym’s owner, had been a top ten middleweight many moons and pounds ago, and his idea of what a gym was supposed to be had gone out of fashion about the same time he started ballooning up to heavyweight. McGill’s wasn’t air-conditioned, it stank from sweat, and it didn’t have a pool or spa. That turned off the millennials and young professionals who worked out so they would look good in the Pearl’s singles bars, but it did attract professional boxers and mixed martial arts combatants, masochistic weight lifters, and serious bodybuilders. Anyone wearing spandex need not apply. Robin fit right in.

Robin had been the first girl in her state to place in a boys’ high school wrestling championship. She didn’t try out for the wrestling team in college, because her university fielded a top NCAA Division I squad, but there was a gym near the school that taught mixed martial arts. By Robin’s first semester at Yale Law School, she was ranked ninth in the UFC in her weight class and her fans sang the old rock and roll song “Rockin’ Robin” when she walked into the octagon.

Robin’s UFC career ended shortly after law school started. Mandy Kerrigan, a top contender, had a fight scheduled on a pay-per-view card in Las Vegas. When her opponent was injured a week before the fight, Robin was asked to fill in. Robin saw the fight as a chance for fame and glory. Her manager told her it was a huge mistake. Robin admitted he had been right, as soon as she regained consciousness. Short-term memory loss convinced her that it was time to stop fighting, but she still loved to work out.

Barry McGill was a crusty old bastard, but he had a soft spot for Robin. “Your gal pal, Martinez, is over by the weights,” he called out when he spotted her heading for the locker room. “Think you two girls can stop gabbing long enough to work up a sweat?”

“Let us girls know when you’re ready to go a few rounds, Barry, and I’ll put the EMTs on notice,” Robin shot back. “They have a special rate for AARP members.”

McGill chuckled and Robin gave him the finger.

After she changed into her workout gear, Robin joined Sally Martinez, who was doing curls in front of a floor-to-ceiling mirror. Martinez was a CPA who had won all-American honors wrestling for Pacific University and had trained in mixed martial arts. Sally and Robin sparred together occasionally, but Sally usually worked out in the evening.

“What are you doing here so early?”

“Tax season. I’ve got to get my workouts in while I can.”

Robin and Sally were a study in contrasts. Robin was five eight with a wiry build; a midwesterner with blond hair and blue eyes that proclaimed her Nordic ancestry. Sally’s brown skin and straight black hair were clues that her parents had emigrated from Mexico. She was shorter than Robin but more muscular.

After Robin warmed up, they walked over to the mats and began circling each other. Robin saw an opening and snapped a front kick. Sally slipped past it, grabbed Robin’s ankle, kicked her other leg out from under her, and put Robin in a submission hold.

Robin tapped out and they got to their feet. Sally shot a double leg tackle and threw Robin to the mat. They scrambled for a few seconds before Sally wrapped her legs around Robin’s waist in a figure four and put her in a choke hold.

“You’re slow as molasses this morning,” Sally said when they were standing again.

“A case kept me tossing and turning all night,” Robin answered.

“You sure it wasn’t Jeff?”

Robin blushed. When Sally laughed, Robin took her down with a single leg tackle.

“Hey, that’s cheating,” Sally complained.

* * *

After her workout, Robin showered and changed into the clothes she kept in her locker before walking across town to the law offices of Barrister, Berman & Lockwood.

The walls of the firm’s reception area were decorated with photographs of Haystack Rock, Multnomah Falls, Mount Hood, and other Oregon landmarks, and it was furnished with several chairs, a sofa, and end tables covered by magazines. When Robin entered the waiting area, Linda Garrett, the receptionist, motioned her over.

“What’s up?” Robin asked.

Garrett nodded toward an elegantly dressed gentleman who was thumbing through a magazine.

“He wanted to see Miss Barrister. I told him that she’d retired, so he asked if he could see one of the other attorneys. Mark is out of town taking depositions, and I wasn’t sure you could fit him in.”

When Robin walked over to him, the man put down the magazine and stood up.

“I’m Robin Lockwood, one of the partners.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the man said in a charming British accent. “I’m Robert Chesterfield, and I was hoping to discuss a legal matter with Regina Barrister.”

“Miss Barrister has retired.”

“So I was told. I must say that I was surprised to hear that. She was in her late thirties when she represented me, which means she would only be sixty-something now. I assumed she’d still be practicing.”

“She was able to take early retirement,” Robin said, not wanting to reveal the real reason Regina had been forced to leave the practice of law. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“Perhaps.”

“Why don’t we go back to my office?”

When Regina left to travel the world, Mark had graciously given Robin Regina’s corner office. The floor on which the firm did business was high enough above the lobby of a glass-and-steel high-rise in downtown Portland to give Robin a spectacular view of the Willamette River, the foothills of the Cascade Range, and the snowcaps that crowned Mount Hood and Mount St. Helens.

“Why did you want to see Regina?” Robin asked when Chesterfield was seated across the desk from her.

“I’m a professional magician, and I want to get a patent for the Chamber of Death, a new illusion I’m developing for a show I’m going to perform in Las Vegas.”

Robin smiled. “That sounds terrifying.”

Chesterfield returned the smile. “My hope is that it will also be mystifying.”

Robin laughed. Then she grew serious. “Unfortunately, even if Regina were still practicing, she wouldn’t have been able to help you. She specialized in criminal defense. I don’t think she ever handled an intellectual property case.”

“What about you? Can you help me?”

“I’m afraid not. Criminal law is also my specialty. I wouldn’t know the first thing about patenting a magic trick. I don’t even know if you can get a patent for a magic illusion.”

“What about Mr. Berman? Could he secure my patent?”

“Mark specializes in civil litigation. I doubt that he’s ever handled a case involving a patent.”

“Miss Lockwood, if I retained your firm to represent me in a patent case, would you be my attorneys if I became embroiled in a matter in a completely different field of law?”

“What area are you talking about? It would have to be something our firm is competent to handle.”

“Are you a good criminal defense attorney?”

“I do okay.”

Chesterfield gestured toward the wall where Robin’s diplomas were displayed. “I see you’re an Eli. I’ve heard that it is incredibly difficult to gain admission to Yale’s law school, so you are both brilliant and modest, a charming combination for someone in your profession.”

“I love flattery, Mr. Chesterfield, but, unfortunately, we won’t be able to take on your case. I can give you the names of some excellent intellectual property attorneys.”

“I’ve decided that I want your firm to represent me.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Copyright © 2020 by Phillip Margolin