Love Proof (Laws of Attraction) - By Elizabeth Ruston Page 0,91

honestly out in the sun, rather than at a salon.

A court reporter Sarah had never seen was setting up. “I thought Marcela was with us this week.”

“She lost a crown over the weekend,” the woman said. “She had to get it fixed today. I’m Wendy. I’ll be here and in Seattle tomorrow.”

Sarah shook her hand. “Thanks for filling in.”

Joe entered the conference room along with his client, a young woman who looked like she was in her early 20s. Ryan stood up and introduced himself to both of them. He even shook the plaintiff’s hand, which Sarah had never seen Chapman do.

“Before we get started, Ms. Townsend,” Ryan said to the woman, “is there anything we can get you? Water, coffee?”

“No,” she answered nervously. “Thanks.” She looked at Joe as if seeking some reassurance that she’d given the right answer: We don’t take food or comfort from the enemy.

Joe smiled encouragingly. “Just speak up if you need anything,” he said, “all right?”

The young woman nodded.

“Well, let’s get started then, shall we?” Ryan said. “I promise I won’t take too much of your time today, Ms. Townsend. Just a few questions, then we’ll have you on your way.”

Sarah caught Joe’s eye and gave him a look that said, Not bad. So far this new lawyer was a vast improvement over Chapman.

While Ryan began his preliminary questions—“Please state your name, your date of birth, address,” etc.—Sarah booted up her laptop. Then she entered a search for “Ryan Sollers.”

Bachelor’s in Political Science from University of California, Berkeley, then law school at Stanford. Member of the law review. Twenty-eight years old, had been practicing law for three years.

Sarah looked over and noticed Joe reading something on his phone. She wondered if he was checking up on Sollers, too.

“Now,” Ryan said, “if you wouldn’t mind, Ms. Townsend—do you mind if I call you Amanda?”

“No,” she said, still sounding slightly nervous, “that’s fine.”

“Great, thanks. All right, Amanda, if you would, I’d like you to take me through a typical routine of straightening your hair. From wet to beautiful, just like it is right now. Can you do that for me?”

Sarah admired Ryan’s way with the plaintiff. He phrased everything as a request, not a demand. A “would you,” “can I,” “could you?” Lawyers like Paul Chapman were so heavy-handed, they ended up making people say as little as possible just to try to get by. But someone like Ryan Sollers could coax a lot more information from a witness by coming across as polite and curious, with a few humble and sincere-sounding apologies thrown in here and there.

The guy was good, Sarah thought. Especially for someone who’d only been at it for a few years.

She continued her search, looking for any information about cases he might have been involved in before. When she didn’t find anything right away, she realized she should stop focusing on her screen and instead listen to the testimony.

“So in between,” Ryan was saying, “when you’re unclipping the next section of hair and getting ready to straighten it, where do you usually put the hair iron?”

“You know, on the counter right next to me,” Amanda Townsend said.

“Give me a picture,” Ryan said, “if you don’t mind. What’s your bathroom counter made out of? Tile, or maybe a laminate of some kind—do you know?”

“Um . . . you know, it’s just this blue counter. It’s whatever came with my apartment.”

“Okay,” Ryan said, writing something down, “got it. Now, what do you usually have on your counter? Probably some makeup, your toothbrush—give me a picture, please.”

The young woman described the clutter of items on her counter.

“Great,” Ryan said. “Thank you. It sounds like there might not be much room there. Do you ever have a hand towel nearby? Or a washcloth?”

“Sometimes.”

The two of them went back and forth discussing in minute detail everything that might be on her counter on a typical day. It was starting to sound as boring as Chapman’s questions about a plaintiff’s educational history or where her parents were born.

But then one of Ryan’s questions had Sarah turning to her Internet search engine once again.

“Do you ever let the hair iron rest on a towel?”

“I don’t know, sometimes.”

“Do you remember if you did that the day it caught on fire?”

Sarah brought up the Atheena instruction manual. She quickly paged through to the warnings, and found the one she was looking for:

Never allow appliance to touch any fabric or other flammable materials.

She continued searching through the instructions for other clues about